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 From Vienna, happy greetings, From Sir Bach—but this— Are you well? And this sealed letter He sends you with a kiss.”

Even on an empty stomach I am most polite. “Pardon me, you royal servants, This shirt I wear at night.”

But old Jack, my coal-black bulldog, Lacks all sense of mirth He knows “habeas corpus” only Through his English birth.

So he almost made a blunder, Broke a rule or two As he growled beneath the bedstead At the royal retinue.

But I trewthrew [sic] at him a volume Of our monarchic laws; And he growled no more that evening Without any cause.

I am used to rule and order; Since it was December, I put on my woolly stockings Aided by each member.