I stole the Prince, and I brought him here,
And left him, gaily prattling
With a highly respectable Gondolier,
Who promised the Royal babe to rear,
And teach him the trade of a timoneer
With his own beloved bratling.
Both of the babes were strong and stout,
And, considering all things, clever.
Of that there is no manner of doubt--
No probable, possible shadow of doubt--
No possible doubt whatever.
Time sped, and when at the end of a year
I sought that infant cherished,
That highly respectable Gondolier
Was lying a corpse on his humble bier--
I dropped a Grand Inquisitor's tear--
That Gondolier had perished.
A taste for drink, combined with gout,
Had doubled him up for ever.
Of _that_ there is no manner of doubt--
No probable, possible shadow of doubt--
No possible doubt whatever.
But owing, I'm much disposed to fear,
To his terrible taste for tippling,
That highly respectable Gondolier
Could never declare with a mind sincere
Which of the two was his offspring dear,
And which the Royal stripling!
Which was which he could never make out,
Despite his best endeavour.
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