The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

I much regret, dear Reverend Sir,
I could not come to ***meet you;
But this curst gout wo'n't let me stir—
Ev'n now I but by proxy greet you;
As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is,
Owes all to an amanuensis.
Most other scourges of disease
Reduce men to extremities—
But gout wo'n't leave one even these.

From all my sister writes, I see
That you and I will quite agree.
I'm a plain man, who speak the truth,
And trust you'll think me not uncivil,
When I declare that, from my youth,
I've wish'd your country at the devil:
Nor can I doubt, indeed, from all
I've heard of your high patriot fame—

358

From every word your lips let fall—
That you most truly wish the same.
It plagues one's life out—thirty years
Have I had dinning in my ears,
“Ireland wants this, and that, and t'other,”
And, to this hour, one nothing hears
But the same vile, eternal bother.
While, of those countless things she wanted,
Thank God, but little has been granted,
And ev'n that little, if we're men
And Britons, we'll have back again!

I really think that Catholic question
Was what brought on my indigestion;
And still each year, as Popery's curse
Has gather'd round us, I've got worse;
Till ev'n my pint of port a day
Can't keep the Pope and bile away.
And whereas, till the Catholic bill,
I never wanted draught or pill,
The settling of that cursed question
Has quite unsettled my digestion.

Look what has happen'd since—the Elect
Of all the bores of every sect,

359

The chosen triers of men's patience,
From all the Three Denominations,
Let loose upon us;—even Quakers
Turn'd into speechers and law-makers,
Who'll move no question, stiff-rump'd elves,
Till first the Spirit moves themselves;
And whose shrill Yeas and Nays, in chorus,
Conquering our Ays and Nos sonorous,
Will soon to death's own slumber snore us.
Then, too, those Jews!—I really sicken
To think of such abomination;
Fellows, who wo'n't eat ham with chicken,
To legislate for this great nation!—
Depend upon't, when once they've sway,
With rich old Goldsmid at the head o' them,
Th' Excise laws will be done away,
And Circumcise ones pass'd instead o' them!

In short, dear sir, look where one will,
Things all go on so devilish ill,
That, 'pon my soul, I rather fear
Our reverend Rector may be right,
Who tells me the Millennium's near;
Nay, swears he knows the very year,

360

And regulates his leases by't;—
Meaning their terms should end, no doubt,
Before the world's own lease is out.
He thinks, too, that the whole thing's ended
So much more soon than was intended,
Purely to scourge those men of sin
Who brought th' accurst Reform Bill in.

However, let's not yet despair;
Though Toryism's eclips'd, at present,
And—like myself, in this old chair—
Sits in a state by no means pleasant;
Feet crippled—hands, in luckless hour,
Disabled of their grasping power;
And all that rampant glee, which revell'd
In this world's sweets, be-dull'd, bedevil'd—
Yet, though condemn'd to frisk no more,
And both in Chair of Penance set,

361

There's something tells me, all's not o'er
With Toryism or Bobby yet;
That though, between us, I allow
We've not a leg to stand on now;
Though curst Reform and colchicum
Have made us both look deuced glum,
Yet still, in spite of Grote and Gout,
Again we'll shine triumphant out!

Yes—back again shall come, egad,
Our turn for sport, my reverend lad.
And then, O'Mulligan—oh then,
When mounted on our nags again,
You, on your high-flown Rosinante,
Bedizen'd out, like Show-Gallantee
(Glitter great from substance scanty);—
While I, Bob Fudge, Esquire, shall ride
Your faithful Sancho, by your side;
Then—talk of tilts and tournaments!
Dam'me, we'll—

[OMITTED]

'Squire Fudge's clerk presents
To Reverend Sir his compliments;

362

Is griev'd to say an accident
Has just occurr'd which will prevent
The Squire—though now a little better—
From finishing this present letter.
Just when he'd got to “Dam'me, we'll—”
His Honour, full of martial zeal,
Grasp'd at his crutch, but not being able
To keep his balance or his hold,
Tumbled, both self and crutch, and roll'd
Like ball and bat, beneath the table.

All's safe—the table, chair, and crutch;—
Nothing, thank God, is broken much,
But the Squire's head, which, in the fall,
Got bump'd consid'rably—that's all.
At this no great alarm we feel,
As the Squire's head can bear a deal.

This appears to have been the opinion also of an eloquent writer in the Morning Watch. “One great object of Christ's second Advent, as the Man and as the King of the Jews, is to punish the Kings who do not acknowledge that their authority is derived from him, and who submit to receive it from that many-headed monster, the mob.” No. x. p. 373.

Wednesday morning.

Squire much the same—head rather light—
Rav'd about “Barbers' Wigs” all night.

Our housekeeper, old Mrs. Griggs,
Suspects that he meant “barbarous Whigs.”