The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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| III, IV. |
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| VI, VII. |
 | VIII, IX. |
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| 2. |
THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF. BY LORD ST---NL---Y.
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
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THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF. BY LORD ST---NL---Y.
(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)
“Evil, be thou my good.”
Milton.
How various are the inspirations
Of different men, in different nations!
As genius prompts to good or evil,
Some call the Muse, some raise the devil.
Old Socrates, that pink of sages,
Kept a pet demon, on board wages,
To go about with him incog.,
And sometimes give his wits a jog.
So L---nd---st, in our day, we know,
Keeps fresh relays of imps below,
To forward, from that nameless spot,
His inspirations, hot and hot.
Of different men, in different nations!
As genius prompts to good or evil,
Some call the Muse, some raise the devil.
Old Socrates, that pink of sages,
Kept a pet demon, on board wages,
To go about with him incog.,
And sometimes give his wits a jog.
So L---nd---st, in our day, we know,
Keeps fresh relays of imps below,
To forward, from that nameless spot,
His inspirations, hot and hot.
But, neat as are old L---nd---st's doings—
Beyond ev'n Hecate's “hell-broth” brewings—
Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,
I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhoods' tricks
With age's sourest politics;
The urchin's freaks, the vet'ran's gall,
Both duly mix'd, and matchless all;
A compound nought in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!
Beyond ev'n Hecate's “hell-broth” brewings—
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I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhoods' tricks
With age's sourest politics;
The urchin's freaks, the vet'ran's gall,
Both duly mix'd, and matchless all;
A compound nought in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!
Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,
Whene'er thou, witch-like, rids't the storm,
Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee—
No livelier lackey could they find thee.
And, Goddess, as I'm well aware,
So mischief's done, you care not where,
I own, 'twill most my fancy tickle
In Paddyland to play the Pickle;
Having got credit for inventing
A new, brisk method of tormenting—
A way, they call the Stanley fashion,
Which puts all Ireland in a passion;
So neat it hits the mixture due
Of injury and insult too;
So legibly it bears upon't
The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.
Whene'er thou, witch-like, rids't the storm,
Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee—
No livelier lackey could they find thee.
And, Goddess, as I'm well aware,
So mischief's done, you care not where,
I own, 'twill most my fancy tickle
In Paddyland to play the Pickle;
Having got credit for inventing
A new, brisk method of tormenting—
A way, they call the Stanley fashion,
Which puts all Ireland in a passion;
So neat it hits the mixture due
Of injury and insult too;
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The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.
Ireland, we're told, means land of Ire;
And why she's so, none need inquire,
Who sees her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord St---nl---y.
Already in the breeze I scent
The whiff of coming devilment;
Of strife, to me more stirring far
Than the' Opium or the Sulphur war,
Or any such drug ferments are.
Yes—sweeter to this Tory soul
Than all such pests, from pole to pole,
Is the rich, “swelter'd venom” got
By stirring Ireland's “charmed pot ;”
And, thanks to practice on that land,
I stir it with a master-hand.
And why she's so, none need inquire,
Who sees her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord St---nl---y.
Already in the breeze I scent
The whiff of coming devilment;
Of strife, to me more stirring far
Than the' Opium or the Sulphur war,
Or any such drug ferments are.
Yes—sweeter to this Tory soul
Than all such pests, from pole to pole,
Is the rich, “swelter'd venom” got
By stirring Ireland's “charmed pot ;”
And, thanks to practice on that land,
I stir it with a master-hand.
Again thou'lt see, when forth hath gone
The War-Church-cry, “On, Stanley, on!”
How Caravats and Shanavests
Shall swarm from out their mountain nests,
With all their merry moonlight brothers,
To whom the Church (step-dame to others)
Hath been the best of nursing mothers.
Again o'er Erin's rich domain
Shall Rockites and right reverends reign;
And both, exempt from vulgar toil,
Between them share that titheful soil;
Puzzling ambition which to climb at,
The post of Captain, or of Primate.
The War-Church-cry, “On, Stanley, on!”
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Shall swarm from out their mountain nests,
With all their merry moonlight brothers,
To whom the Church (step-dame to others)
Hath been the best of nursing mothers.
Again o'er Erin's rich domain
Shall Rockites and right reverends reign;
And both, exempt from vulgar toil,
Between them share that titheful soil;
Puzzling ambition which to climb at,
The post of Captain, or of Primate.
And so, long life to Church and Co.—
Hurrah for mischief!—here we go.
Hurrah for mischief!—here we go.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |