Tap, pause; tap, pause; tap, pause.
A lonely sound which echoes round an ancient hall.
And to its beat In single file emerge a King, as well the Princess Royal,
My lords of York and then of Sussex; peers of the realm, all duty bound
To take their places, which by ceremoniously doing thus evinces
Such enduring continuity when its viewed - that vigil of the princes.

The Royal Standard drapes the coffin
There in which the late Queen lies
Lions, rampart, passant guardant,
And the harp of Ireland, blue;
Scarlet, yellow, such bright colours;
Jewelled the crown which sits there too.

And in the coffin ‘neath that glory
Lies our Queen now stiff, now cold.
Three score years and ten her story,
Three score years and ten which queue
From Southwark Park to Lambeth Bridge,
Just once more their Queen to view.

Just once more their Queen to view,
Patient, waiting through the night.
All walks of life to whisper through
This hall built by the Conqueror’s son.
Mute might it stand yet shout so loud
Of Britain’s past and of its history proud.

Tap, pause; tap, pause; tap, pause.
A lonely sound which echoes round the ancient hall.
And to its beat In single file emerge a King, as well the Princess Royal,
My lords of York and then of Sussex; peers of the realm, all duty bound
To take their places, which by ceremoniously doing thus evinces
That enduring continuity when its viewed - the vigil of the princes.

The British royal family is front and center this weekend. How unusual is that?

The empire may be gone, but it’s time to recall its ghost, dust it off and invoke the ancient spell of monarchy.

A coronation, the original dog & pony show - God’s kingly sinecure. I can’t remember the last one.

You have to know who your great, great, great, grandfather was to be nobility-class smug or to don those getups, with medals that would have made Caesar blush and Attila laugh.

The cast is familiar, if somewhat balding, the too-old king, his - whatever - wife.

I can’t help mourning Diana. Accident, treachery or karma, grown men cried at her passing, Shakespeare’s darkened heavens blazed in sorrow and, eventually, even the gray queen bowed her head.

There’s no more honor, in 2023, and if there’s any glory, its light has grown as dim as the glitter of gold.

The fact that the royals are better than us, is axiomatic. Not morally superior, of course. That’s the Pope’s job. The royals are like Britain’s Mickey Mouse, and any civilized man, who’d strike at that, would have to be a fool.