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The Working Monarch.

by William Schwenck Gilbert

Rising early in the morning,

We proceed to light our fire;

Then our Majesty adorning

In its work-a-day attire,

We embark without delay

On the duties of the day.

First, we polish off some batches

Of political dispatches,

And foreign politicians circumvent;

Then, if business isn't heavy,

We may hold a Royal levee,

Or ratify some acts of Parliament;

Then we probably review the household troops

With the usual "Shalloo humps!" and "Shalloo hoops!"

Or receive with ceremonial and state

An interesting Eastern Potentate,

After that we generally

Go and dress our private valet

(It's rather a nervous duty he's a touchy little man)

Write some letters literary

For our private secretary

He is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can.

Then, in view of cravings inner,

We go down and order dinner;

Or we polish the Regalia and the Coronation Plate

Spend an hour in titivating

All our Gentlemen-in-Waiting;

Or we run on little errands for the Ministers of State.

Oh, philosophers may sing

Of the troubles of a King;

Yet the duties are delightful, and the privileges great;

But the privilege and pleasure

That we treasure beyond measure

Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State!

After luncheon (making merry

On a bun and glass of sherry),

If we've nothing particular to do,

We may make a Proclamation,

Or receive a Deputation

Then we possibly create a Peer or two.

Then we help a fellow creature on his path

With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath:

Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State

To a festival, a function, or a fete.

Then we go and stand as sentry

At the Palace (private entry),

Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro,

While the warrior on duty

Goes in search of beer and beauty

(And it generally happens that he hasn't far to go).

He relieves us, if he's able,

Just in time to lay the table,

Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one,

With a pleasure that's emphatic,

We retire to our attic

With the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done.

Oh, philosophers may sing

Of the troubles of a King,

But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none;

And the culminating pleasure

That we treasure beyond measure

Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done!