Behold great Louis, Bavaria’s king,
Few monarchs are half so splendid;
In him a king the Bavarians revere,
From an ancient line descended.
He’s fond of art: fair women to get
For their portraits to sit, is his passion:
In this painted seraglio takes he his walks,
In eunuch-artistic fashion.
A marble place of skulls hath he
Near Ratisbon constructed,
And all the arrangements for every head
In his own royal person conducted.
Walhalla-companions! A masterpiece,
Where the merit of every man is
Set forth, with his character and his acts,
From Teut to Schinderhannes.
But Luther, the blockhead, amongst them all,
Has no place in this proud mausoleum;
The whale ’mongst the fishes is often left out
In a natural hist’ry museum.
King Louis is also a poet renown’d;
Whenever sings or plays he,
Apollo falls down at his feet and exclaims:
“O stop, or you’ll drive me quite crazy!”
King Louis is also a hero renown’d,
Like his child, his little son, Otho,
Who was chosen to sit on the throne of Greece
(He disgraced it long ago, tho’).
When Louis dies, he’ll canonised be
At Rome by the holy Father;
A cat with ruffles a face like his
With its Glory will look like rather.
As soon as the monkeys and kangaroos
Are converted to Christianity,
They’ll make St. Louis their guardian saint,
In proof of their perfect sanity.