There was a king in Brentford,—of whom no legends tell, <br />But who, without his glory,—could eat and sleep right well. <br />His Polly's cotton nightcap,—it was his crown of state, <br />He slept of evenings early,—and rose of mornings late. <br /> <br />All in a fine mud palace,—each day he took four meals, <br />And for a guard of honor,—a dog ran at his heels, <br />Sometimes, to view his kingdoms,—rode forth this monarch good, <br />And then a prancing jackass—he royally bestrode. <br /> <br />There were no costly habits—with which this king was curst, <br />Except (and where's the harm on't?)—a somewhat lively thirst; <br />But people must pay taxes,—and kings must have their sport, <br />So out of every gallon—His Grace he took a quart. <br /> <br />He pleased the ladies round him,—with manners soft and bland; <br />With reason good, they named him,—the father of his land. <br />Each year his mighty armies—marched forth in gallant show; <br />Their enemies were targets—their bullets they were tow. <br /> <br />He vexed no quiet neighbor,—no useless conquest made, <br />But by the laws of pleasure,—his peaceful realm he swayed. <br />And in the years he reigned,—through all this country wide, <br />There was no cause for weeping,—save when the good man died. <br /> <br />The faithful men of Brentford,—do still their king deplore, <br />His portrait yet is swinging,— beside an alehouse door. <br />And topers, tender-hearted,—regard his honest phiz, <br />And envy times departed—that knew a reign like his.<br /><br />William Makepeace Thackeray<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-king-of-brentford/
