They will troop in loyal thousands from the putrid purlieus where
Foul Disease and Crime and Famine have their pestilential lair;
They will crawl from fetid alley, they will creep from courts obscene,
When they hear the joyous tidings of the passing of their Queen.
She has reigned—aloft, sublime—
Sixty years—let joy-bells chime!
And these God-forgotten wretches were her subjects all the time!
They are hungry; they are ragged; they are gaunt and hollow-eyed;
But their frowsy bosoms palpitate with fine oldcBritish pride;
And they’ll belt their rags in tighter, and they’ll hoarsely cry “Hooray!”
When their good Queen’s circus passes on Sexagenary Day.
O the thunder of the drums,
And the cry of “Here she comes!”
Will be better than a breakfast to the natives of the slums.
All their woes will be forgotten on that ever-blessed day
When they see the Kings and Princes and the Lords in broad array,
Clad in brand-new dazzling uniforms with golden lace agleam—
O their Hunger and their Misery will vanish like a dream!
Lust of eye, and pride of life,
In that pageant will run rife,
And “The Dials,” drunk with joy, at night will dance upon its wife.
Sixty years their gracious Queen has reigned a-holding up the sky,
And a-bringing round the seasons, hot and cold, and wet and dry;
And in all that time she’s never done a deed deserving gaol—
So let joy-bells ring out madly and Delirium prevail!
O her Poor will blessings pour
On their Queen whom they adore;
When she blinks with puffy eyes at them they’ll hunger nevermore.