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WITH ganial foire

Thransfuse me loyre,

Ye sacred nympths of Pindus,
The whoile I sing

That wondthrous thing,

The Palace made o' windows!

Say, Paxton, truth,

Thou wondthrous youth,
What sthroke of art celistial,
What power was lint
You to invint

This combineetion cristial.

O would before

That Thomas Moore, Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, Thim aigles sthrong

Of godlike song,

Cast oi on that cast oiron!

And saw thim walls,

And glittering halls,

Thim rising slendther columns,

Which I poor pote,

Could not denote,

No, not in twinty vollums.

My Muse's words

Is like the bird's

That roosts beneath the panes there;

Her wings she spoils

'Gainst them bright toiles,

And cracks her silly brains there.

This Palace tall,

This Cristial Hall,

Which Imperors might covet,

Stands in High Park

Like Noah's Ark,

A rainbow bint above it.

The towers and fanes,

In other scaynes,

The fame of this will undo,

Saint Paul's big doom,

Saint Payther's Room,
And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

"Tis here that roams,

As well becomes

Her dignitee and stations,

Victoria Great,

And houlds in state

The Congress of the Nations.

Her subjects pours

From distant shores,

Her Injians and Canajians;

And also we,

Her kingdoms three,

Attind with our allagiance.

Here come likewise

Her bould allies,

Both Asian and Europian;
From East and West
They send their best
To fill her Coornucopean.

I seen (thank Grace!)
This wondthrous place
(His Noble Honour Misther
H. Cole it was

That gave the pass,

And let me see what is there).

With conscious proide

I stud insoide

And look'd the World's Great Fair in,

Until me sight

Was dazzled quite,

And couldn't see for staring.

There's holy saints

And window paints, By Maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones

Did paint the tones

Of yellow and gambouge in.

There's fountains there

And crosses fair;

There's water-gods with urrns:

There's organs three,

To play, d'ye see?

"God save the Queen," by turrns.

There's Statues bright

Of marble white,
Of silver, and of copper;
And some in zinc,
And some, I think,
That isn't over proper.

There's staym Ingynes, That stands in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing.

There's carts and gigs,

And pins for pigs,

There's dibblers and there's harrows,

And ploughs like toys

For little boys,

And ilegant wheel-barrows.

For thim genteels

Who ride on wheels,

There's plenty to indulge 'em :

There's Droskys snug

From Paytersbug,

And vayhycles from Bulgium.

There's Cabs on Stands

And Shandthry danns;

There's Waggons from New York here;

There's Lapland Sleighs

Have cross'd the seas,

And Jaunting Cyars from Cork here.

Amazed I pass

From glass to glass, Deloighted I survey 'em; Fresh wondthers grows

Before me nose

In this sublime Musayum!

Look, here's a fan
From far Japan,

A sabre from Damasco:
There's shawls ye get

From far Thibet,

And cotton prints from Glasgow.

There's German flutes,

Marocky boots,

And Naples Macaronies;


Has sent Bohay ;

Polonia her polonies.

There's granite flints

That's quite imminse,

There's sacks of coals and fuels, There's swords and guns,

And soap in tuns,

And Ginger-bread and Jewels.

There's taypots there,

And cannons rare ;

There's coffins fill'd with roses;

There's canvas tints,

Teeth insthrumints,

And shuits of clothes by MOSES.

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