Oh say you remember the Gobbledegooks,
Cor blimey, what funsters! Good gracious! Gadzooks!
Today there's a flurry, like waves on the ocean;
Prince Rupert's gone missing, now here's a commotion.
A pirate, a parrot, a ferret, a flea,
Adrift in the boisterous, roisterous sea,
Sail past in a schooner (or is it a galleon?)
In search of that rascally, ratbag rapscallion.
Fandangle-fantabulous falcons in flight,
A troll on a tricycle trailing a kite,
Kaleidoscope jesters cartwheeling through hoops
And tatterdemalion, tumbleweed troops,
The King and the Queen, the Princesses (of course!)
Squirrels on scooters, Girl Guides on a horse,
All fossick through foliage, trawl through the trees
And rummage round rockpools, all soaked to their knees.
The playground is plundered, the park's been inspected,
No hiding-place ever so small is neglected
Nobody can spot 'im, nobody can see 'im
In sweet-shop or toy-shop or Mushroom Museum.
The Queen's getting frazzled, the King is perplexed,
The Grand-Duke's bamboozled on what to do next.
Then midst all the hubbub, the hoo-ha and fizz,
A wee voice starts singing, "I know where he is!"
'Tis Hilda the youngest of scullery maids,
The sweetest of face and the longest of braids.
The Lords and the Ladies stop speaking and swallow
And when Hilda beckons, they all of them follow.
Down steep, stony staircases, several flights,
Past suits of old armour from long-ago knights.
Past state-rooms and banquet-halls, dungeons and such,
Through velvety curtains that sway to the touch.
They march through the kitchen where Cook's baking bread,
A great cloud of flour-dust swirls round her head.
A dozen assistants all scuttle about;
The great oven's smoking, red flames flicker out.
At last to the scullery, dingy and dim
And stacked to the tippy-top, uppermost brim
With frypans and saucepans and ramekins too,
With wee pots for custards and large pots for stew.
And there in the corner a cauldron gigantic
Where Hilda leads all of the searchers so frantic.
Right there in the pot-bottom, down in the deep,
Lies little Prince Rupert, still smiling, asleep.
The Grand-Duke's elated, the court is ecstatic,
Their shouting awakens the bats in the attic
Who flock from the belfry, a dark flapping cloud
And swoop o'er the heads of the up-gazing crowd.
"Hoorah!" cry the people, the Gobbledegooks,
"Hoorah!" echo all of the Lords and the Dukes.
The King gives a speech to which nobody listens
And there on the cheek of the Queen, a tear glistens.
The servants, excited, give Hilda a cheer -
They name her the scullery-maid of the year.
And as for Prince Rupert, a moment he'll borrow
To whisper to Hilda, "Can I come back tomorrow?"
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