Ye pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius,
Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow,
Descind from your station and make observation
Of the Prince’s pavilion in sweet Pimlico.
This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres,
(The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know;)
And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure,
Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico.
O ’tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is
Walking magnanimous all of a row,
Forgetful what state is among the pataties
And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico.
There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a chorus,
Of “God save the Queen” as they hop to and fro;
And you sit on the binches and hark to the finches,
Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico.
There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck polyanthuses
That round in the gardens resplindently grow,
Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet specimins,
Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico.
You see when you inther, and stand in the cinther,
Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflowers blow,
A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows
Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico.
And when you’ve ascinded that precipice splindid
You see on its summit a wondtherful show–
A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding,
The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico.
Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthers,
(On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow,)
With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion,
Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico.
There’s lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on,
And pictures beneath them that’s shaped like a bow;
I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead
Should find an admission to famed Pimlico.
O lovely’s each fresco, and most picturesque O;
And while round the chamber astonished I go,
I think Dan Maclise’s it baits all the pieces
Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico.
Eastlake has the chimney, (a good one to limn he,)
And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below;
While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers,
Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico.
And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it;
O’er Claude or Poussang sure ’tis he that may crow:
But Sir Ross’s best faiture is small mini-ature–
He shouldn’t paint frescoes in famed Pimlico.
There’s Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings;
There’s Dyce, as brave masther as England can show;
And the flowers and the sthrawherries, sure he no dauber is,
That painted the panels of famed Pimlico.
In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault there’s got,
Sure the marble’s as natural as thrue Scaglio;
And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay in,
And ait butther’d muffins in sweet Pimlico.
There’s landscapes by Gruner, both solar and lunar,
Them two little Doyles too, deserve a bravo;
Wid de piece by young Townsend, (for janins abounds in’t;)
And that’s why he’s shuited to paint Pimlico.
That picture of Severn’s is worthy of rever’nce,
But some I won’t mintion is rather so so;
For sweet philoso’phy, or crumpets and coffee,
O where’s a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico?
O to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian,
Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero;
So heavenly Goddess, d’ye pardon my modesty,
And silence, my lyre! about sweet Pimlico.