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!