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THE VISION OF THE POPE.
9
He fill’d his pipe, with “bird’s-eye” ripe,
And smok’d away like bricks;
His thoughts were full, of old John Bull,
That prince of Heretics.
He brew’d a glass, then sigh’d “alas!”
Then stretched him out to sleep,
When visions vain, came o’er his brain,
That caused the saint to weep.
Again the throne, once all his own,
By Romans was ignored;
He tumbled down, smash went the crown—
In fact, he was quite floor’d!
Then off to France, that land of dance,
His Courier straight did go;
For Louis pet, is in a sweat,
And what to do don’t know.
With deep intent, the President,
Says, “take ten thousand men,
“I’ll ’gage to Rome, to take him home,
“And make him king again.”
