The King is robed in royal state, with medals on his breast,
And, like the mother Queen she is, Her Majesty is dressed.
The lady’s dressed in simple black and sports no precious stones,
And I a suit of reach-me-downs I bought from Davy Jones.

We’re strangers two to two, and each unto the other three—
I do not know the lady and I don’t think she knows me.
We’re strangers to each other here, and to the other two,
And they themselves are strangers yet, if all we hear is true.

I s’pose we’re just as satisfied as folks have ever been:
The lady would much rather be her own self than the Queen;
And though I’m down and precious stiff and I admire King Ned,
I’d sooner just be Harry, with his follies on his head.

We four may meet together—stranger folk have met, I ween,
Than a rhymer and a monarch and a lady and a queen.
Ned and I might talk it over on the terrace, frank and free,
With cigars, while Alexandra and the lady’s having tea.

Anyway, we’ll never quarrel while we’re hanging on the wall—
Friends! we all have had our troubles—we are human, one and all!
If by chance we hang together—hang together on the line,
And the thing should shock the Godly—then it’s Longstaff’s fault, not mine.