[_To be read with liveliness._]
If you're waking, call me early, mother, fine, or wet, or bleak;
To-morrow is the happiest day of all the Ascot week;
It is the Chiswick fête, mother, of flowers and people gay,
And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may.
There's many a bright _barége_, they say, but none so bright as mine,
And whiter gloves, that have been cleaned, and smell of turpentine;
But none so nice as mine, I know, and so they all will say;
And I'll be queen, if I may, mother; I'll be queen, if I may.
I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not shout at my bedside, and give me a good shake;
For I have got those gloves to trim with blonde and ribbons gay,
And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may.
As I came home to-day, mother, whom think you I should meet,
But Harry—looking at a cab, upset in Oxford-street;
He thought of when we met, to learn the Polka of Miss Rae—
But I'll be queen, if I may, mother; I'll be queen, if I may.
They say he wears moustachios, that my chosen he may be;
They say he's left off raking, mother—what is that to me?
I shall meet all the Fusiliers upon the Chiswick day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.
The night cabs come and go, mother, with panes of mended glass,
And all the things about us seem to clatter as they pass;
The roads are dry and dusty; it will be a fine, fine day,
And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may.
The weather-glass hung in the hall has turned to "fair" from "showers,"
The sea-weed crackles and feels dry, that's hanging 'midst the flowers,
Vauxhall, too, is not open, so 'twill be a fine, fine day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.
So call me, if you're waking; call me, mother, from my rest—
The "Middle Horticultural" is sure to be the best.
Of all the three this one will be the brightest, happiest day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.