The National Anthem

A monarch is pestered with cares,     Though, no doubt, he can often trepan them;     But one comes in a shape he can never escape -     The implacable National Anthem!     Though for quiet and rest he may yearn,     It pursues him at every turn -     No chance of forsaking     Its ROCOCO numbers;     They haunt him when waking -     They poison his slumbers -     Like the Banbury Lady, whom every one knows,     He's cursed with its music wherever he goes!     Though its words but imperfectly rhyme,     And the devil himself couldn't scan them;     With composure polite he endures day and night     That illiterate National Anthem!     It serves a good purpose, I own:     Its strains are devout and impressive -     Its heart-stirring notes raise a lump in our throats     As we burn with devotion excessive:     But the King, who's been bored by that song     From his cradle - each day - all day long -     Who's heard it loud-shouted     By throats operatic,     And loyally spouted     By courtiers emphatic -     By soldier - by sailor - by drum and by fife -     Small blame if he thinks it the plague of his life!     While his subjects sing loudly and long,     Their King - who would willingly ban them -     Sits, worry disguising, anathematising     That Bogie, the National Anthem!