The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
I, II. |
III, IV. |
V. |
VI, VII. |
VIII, IX. |
X. |
The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | ||
SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.
THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.
A DREAM.
But could not sleep—at length I said,
“I'll think of Viscount C*stl*r---gh,
“And of his speeches—that's the way.”
And so it was, for instantly
I slept as sound as sound could be.
And then I dreamt—so dread a dream!
Fuseli has no such theme;
Any horror, half so horrid!
Before me at his breakfast sate;
On one side lay unread Petitions,
On t'other, Hints from five Physicians;
Here tradesmen's bills,—official papers,
Notes from my Lady, drams for vapours—
There plans of saddles, tea and toast,
Death-warrants and the Morning Post.
As if at some magician's call,
Began to flutter of themselves
From desk and table, floor and shelves,
And, cutting each some different capers,
Advanc'd, oh jacobinic papers!
As though they said, “Our sole design is
“To suffocate his Royal Highness!”
The Leader of this vile sedition
Was a huge Catholic Petition,
With grievances so full and heavy,
It threaten'd worst of all the bevy.
In swaggering sheets, and took their aim
Right at the R*g---t's well-dress'd head,
As if determin'd to be read.
Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly,
And Tradesmen's Bills, we know, mount high;
Nay ev'n Death-warrants thought they'd best
Be lively too, and join the rest.
His Letter about “predilections”—
His own dear Letter, void of grace,
Now flew up in its parent's face!
Shock'd with this breach of filial duty,
He just could murmur “et Tu Brute?”
Then sunk, subdued upon the floor
At Fox's bust, to rise no more!
“Oh! never may this Dream prove true;
“Though paper overwhelms the land,
“Let it not crush the Sovereign too!”
PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.
When, with P*rc*v*l's leave, I may throw my chains by;
And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do,
Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
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[OMITTED]
I meant before now to have sent you this Letter,
But Y*rm---th and I thought perhaps 'twould be better
To wait till the Irish affairs were decided—
(That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided,
For, though H*rtf---rd House had long settled the question,
I thought it but decent, between me and you,
That the two other Houses should settle it too.
Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad ;
A straight waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,
A more limited Monarchy could not well be.
I was call'd upon then, in that moment of puzzle,
To choose my own Minister—just as they muzzle
A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster,
By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.
Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.
So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in,
The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching;
Would lose all their beauty, if purified once;
And think—only think—if our Father should find,
Upon graciously coming again to his mind ,
That improvement had spoil'd any favourite adviser—
That R---se was grown honest, or W*stm*rel---nd wiser—
That R---d---r was, ev'n by one twinkle, the brighter—
Or L*v*rp---l's speeches but half a pound lighter—
What a shock to his old royal heart it would be!
No!—far were such dreams of improvement from me:
And it pleased me to find, at the House, where, you know ,
There's such good mutton cutlets, and strong curaçoa ,
That the Marchioness call'd me a duteous old boy,
And my Y*rm---th's red whiskers grew redder for joy.
By the law of last Sessions I might have done good.
I might have withheld these political noodles
From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles;
I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot,
Might have sooth'd her with hope—but you know I did not.
And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,
But find that, while he has been laid on the shelf,
We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself.
You smile at my hopes—but the Doctors and I,
Are the last that can think the K*ng ever will die.
And all things, of course, must be new to receive it.
New saddles, new helmets, and—why not new friends?
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
I repeat it, “New Friends”—for I cannot describe
The delight I am in with this P*rc*v*l tribe.
Such capering!—Such vapouring!—Such rigour!—Such vigour!
North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure,
That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears,
And leave us no friends—but Old Nick and Algiers.
'Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains.
It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches,
But think how we find our Allies in new breeches!
We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted,
But then we've got Java, an island much wanted,
Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain.
Then how Wellington fights! and how squabbles his brother!
For Papists the one, and with Papists the other;
One crushing Napoleon by taking a City,
While t'other lays waste a whole Cath'lic Committee.
Oh deeds of renown!—shall I boggle or flinch,
With such prospects before me? by Jove, not an inch.
No—let England's affairs go to rack, if they will,
We'll look after th' affairs of the Continent still;
And, with nothing at home but starvation and riot,
Find Lisbon in bread, and keep Sicily quiet.
My heart is a sieve, where some scatter'd affections
Are just danc'd about for a moment or two,
And the finer they are, the more sure to run through:
Neither feel I resentments, nor wish there should come ill
To mortal—except (now I think on't) Beau Br*mm*l,
To cut me, and bring the old K*ng into fashion.
This is all I can lay to my conscience at present;
When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant,
So royally free from all troublesome feelings,
So little encumber'd by faith in my dealings
(And that I'm consistent the world will allow,
What I was at Newmarket the same I am now).
When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking),
I hope, like the Vender of Best Patent Blacking,
“To meet with the gen'rous and kind approbation
“Of a candid, enlighten'd, and liberal nation.”
(No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better,)
'Twould please me if those, whom I've humbug'd so long
With the notion (good men!) that I knew right from wrong,
To let too much light in on me never would do;
But even Grey's brightness shan't make me afraid,
While I've C---md---n and Eld---n to fly to for shade;
Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm,
While there's W*stm*rel---nd near him to weaken the charm.
As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it,
Sure joining with H*rtf---rd and Y*rm---th will do it!
Between R---d---r and Wh*rt*n let Sheridan sit,
And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's wit:
And against all the pure public feeling that glows
Ev'n in Whitbread himself we've a Host in G---rge R---se!
So, in short, if they wish to have Places, they may,
And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey ,
Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose)
By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news;
Believe me yours always with truest affection.
Good Lord, how St. Stephen's will ring with his crowing!
“I think it hardly necessary to call your recollection to the recent circumstances under which I assumed the authority delegated to me by Parliament.” —Prince's Letter.
The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce.
“I waved any personal gratification, in order that his Majesty might resume, on his restoration to health, every power and prerogative,” &c. —Prince's Letter.
“And I have the satisfaction of knowing that such was the opinion of persons for whose judgment,” &c. &c. —Ibid.
“I certainly am the last person in the kingdom to whom it can be permitted to despair of our royal father's recovery.” —Prince's Letter.
“I cannot conclude without expressing the gratification I should feel if some of those persons with whom the early habits of my public life were formed would strengthen my hands, and constitute a part of my government.” —Prince's Letter.
“You are authorized to communicate these sentiments to Lord Grey, who, I have no doubt, will make them known to Lord Grenville.” —Prince's Letter.
ANACREONTIC TO A PLUMASSIER.
Best of Plumists (if you can
With your art so far presume)
Make for me a Pr---ce's Plume—
Feathers soft and feathers rare,
Such as suits a Pr---ce to wear.
Seek me out a fine Pea-hen;
Such a Hen, so tall and grand,
As by Juno's side might stand,
If there were no cocks at hand.
Seek her feathers, soft as down,
Fit to shine on Pr---ce's crown;
If thou canst not find them, stupid!
Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.
Pluck me next an old Cuckoo;
Emblem of the happy fates
Of easy, kind, cornuted mates.
Pluck him well—be sure you do—
Who wouldn't be an old Cuckoo,
Thus to have his plumage blest,
Beaming on a R*y*l crest?
Shall we find for Plume the third?
You must get a learned Owl,
Bleakest of black-letter fowl—
Bigot bird, that hates the light ,
Foe to all that's fair and bright.
Seize his quills, (so form'd to pen
Books , that shun the search of men;
Books, that, far from every eye,
In “swelter'd venom sleeping” lie,)
Stick them in between the two,
Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo.
Bind the kindred stems together
With a silken tie, whose hue
Once was brilliant Buff and Blue;
Sullied now—alas, how much!
Only fit for Y*rm---th's touch.
Present, worthy G---ge's Son;
Now, beneath, in letters neat,
Write “I serve,” and all's complete.
EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.
Met the old yellow chariot , and made a low bow.
This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,
But got such a look—oh 'twas black as the devil!
How unlucky!—incog. he was trav'lling about,
And I like a noodle, must go find him out.
—when next by the old yellow chariot I ride,
To remember there is nothing princely inside.
What can be come over me lately, I wonder?
The Pr---ce was as cheerful, as if, all his life,
He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife—
Answered, “Yes, Sir, but changeable rather, of late.”
He took it, I fear, for he look'd somewhat gruff,
And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough,
That before all the courtiers I fear'd they'd come off,
And then, Lord, how Geramb would triumphantly scoff!
—to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion
To nourish his whiskers—sure road to promotion!
Given by Lady C*stl*r---gh.
My Lord loves music, and, we know,
Has “two strings always to his bow.”
“Had I a heart for falsehood fram'd.”
While gentle H*rtf---d begg'd and pray'd
For “Young I am, and sore afraid.”
England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed and rewarded. “I remember,” says Tavernier, “to have seen one of the King of Persia's porters, whose mustaches were so long that he could tie them behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension.”
EPIGRAM.
What news to-day?—“Oh! worse and worse—“Mac is the Pr---ce's Privy Purse!”—
The Pr---ce's Purse! no, no, you fool,
You mean the Pr---ce's Ridicule.
KING CRACK AND HIS IDOLS.
WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW M*N*STRY.
(At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,)
But Crack now and then would do het'rodox things,
And, at last, took to worshipping Images sadly.
In his father's old Cabinet, pleas'd him so much,
That he knelt down and worshipp'd, though—such was his taste!—
They were monstrous to look at, and rotten to touch.
But his People, disdaining to worship such things,
Cried aloud, one and all, “Come, your Godships must pack—
“You'll not do for us, though you may do for Kings.”
They sent Crack a petition, beginning “Great Cæsar!
“We're willing to worship; but only entreat
“That you'll find us some decenter Godheads than these are.”
Of better shap'd Gods, but he sent them all back;
Some were chisell'd too fine, some had heads 'stead of noddles,
In short, they were all much too godlike for Crack.
And, just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces,
In open defiance of Gods and of man,
Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.
One of those antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston says) was the last King of the Antediluvian Dynasty.
WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?
Quest.
Why is a Pump like V*sc---nt C*stl*r---gh?Answ.
Because it is a slender thing of wood,That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,
And coolly spout and spout and spout away,
In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!
DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS R*Y*L H*GHN*SS THE D---E OF C---B---L---D.
EPIGRAM.
Said his Highness to Ned , with that grim face of his,“Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?”
“Because, Sir,” said Ned, looking full in his phiz,
“You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!”
WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.
AN ANACREONTIC.
Haste thee from Old Brompton's bowers—
Or, (if sweeter that abode)
From the King's well-odour'd Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.
Hither come and gaily twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those, who rule us,
Those, who rule and (some say) fool us—
Flora, sure, will love to please
England's Household Deities!
Fetch me many an orange lily—
Irish G*ff*rd can supply;—
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eld---n's wig
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool,
To crown the head of L*v*rp---l.
'Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs,
Which they suffer'd (what a pity!)
On the road to Paris City.
Bring me from the County Down,
Wither'd Shamrocks, which have been
Gilded o'er, to hide the green—
(Such as H---df---t brought away
From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day )—
With shabby threads of every hue;—
And as, Goddess!—entre nous—
His Lordship loves (though best of men)
A little torture, now and then,
Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens,
Crimp them with thy curling-irons.
Had I leisure, I could say
How the oldest rose that grows
Must be pluck'd to deck Old Rose—
How the Doctor's brow should smile
Crown'd with wreaths of camomile.
But time presses—to thy taste
I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!
The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or Household Gods. See Juvenal, Sat. 9. v. 138.—Plutarch, too, tells us that Household Gods were then, as they are now, “much given to War and penal Statutes.”—εριννυωδεις και ποινιμους δαιμονας.
Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are distributed by the Servants of C---n House every Patrick's Day.
DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD Y*RM---TH'S FÊTE.
EPIGRAM.
I want the Court Guide,” said my lady, “to look“If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20.”—
“We've lost the Court Guide, Ma'am, but here's the Red Book,
“Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour Places in plenty!”
HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.
FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PR---CE R*G---T.
About what your old crony,
The Emperor Boney,
Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;
Should there come famine,
Still plenty to cram in
You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries.
For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away,
And then people get fat,
And infirm, and—all that,
And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits,
That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits;
Though so rosy they burn,
Too quickly must turn
(What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.
Your mind about matters you don't understand?
Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot,
Because “you,” forsooth, “have the pen in your hand!”
Than scribbling a letter,
(Which both you and I
Should avoid by the bye,)
How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust
Of old Charley , my friend here, and drink like a new one;
While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just
As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan.
In C*mb*rl---nd's garden
Grows plenty of monk's hood in venomous sprigs:
While Otto of Roses
Refreshing all noses
Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs.
In that streamlet delicious,
That down 'midst the dishes,
All full of gold fishes,
Romantic doth flow?—
Or who will repair
Unto M---ch---r Sq---e,
And see if the gentle Marchesa be there?
And let her bring with her
The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going—
Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing,
All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,
In the manner of—Ackermann's Dresses for May!
This and the following are extracted from a Work, which may, some time or other, meet the eye of the Public—entitled “Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion.”
Hirpine Quincti, cogitet, Hadria
Divisus objecto, remittas
Quærere.
HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.
(If not his own, at least his Prince's,)
Through toil and danger walks secure,
Looks big and black, and never winces.
Cock'd hat or ringlets of Geramb;
Though Peers may laugh, and Papists swagger,
He doesn't care one single d*mn.
Or through St. Giles's alleys dim,
'Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing,
No matter, 'tis all one to him.
Upon a gay vacation sally,
Singing the praise of Church and State,
Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley.
Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big—
I did but frown, and off he started,
Scar'd at me, even without my wig.
Goes not to Mass in Dublin City,
Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog,
Nor spouts in Catholic Committee.
The ragged royal-blood of Tara;
The houseless wilds of Connemara;
Though ev'n Dick M*rt*n's self should grumble;
Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill,
So lovingly upon a hill—
Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble!
Sive facturus per inhospitalem
Caucasum, vel quæ loca fabulosus
Lambit Hydaspes.?
The Noble Translator had, at first, laid the scene of these imagined dangers of his Man of Conscience among the Papists of Spain, and had translated the words “quæ loca fabulosus lambit Hydaspes” thus—“The fabling Spaniard licks the French;” but, recollecting that it is our interest just now to be respectful to Spanish Catholics (though there is certainly no earthly reason for our being even commonly civil to Irish ones), he altered the passage as it stands at present.
Dum meam canto Lalagen, et ultra
Terminum curis vagor expeditis,
Fugit inermem.
I cannot help calling the reader's attention to the peculiar ingenuity with which these lines are paraphrased. Not to mention the happy conversion of the Wolf into a Papist, (seeing that Romulus was suckled by a wolf, that Rome was founded by Romulus, and that the Pope has always reigned at Rome,) there is something particularly neat in supposing “ultra terminum” to mean vacation-time; and then the modest consciousness with which the Noble and Learned Translator has avoided touching upon the words “curis expeditis,” (or, as it has been otherwise read, “causis expeditis,”) and the felicitous idea of his being “inermis” when “without his wig,” are altogether the most delectable specimens of paraphrase in our language.
Daunias latis alit æsculetis,
Nec Jubæ tellus generat leonum
Arida nutrix.
Arbor æstiva recreatur aura:
Quod latus mundi, nebulæ, malusque
Jupiter urget.
I must here remark, that the said Dick M*rt*n being a very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a “malus Jupiter” of him.
There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the inseparability of Church and State, and their (what is called) “standing and falling together,” than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory.
And broke his Crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.
THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS.
Ovid. Metamorph. l. i. v. 437.
With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back,
And such helmets, God bless us! as never deck'd any
Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni—
“Let's see,” said the R*g---t (like Titus, perplex'd
With the duties of empire,) “whom shall I dress next?”
Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts all right to a hair ;
For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is,
The falser they are, the more firm in their places.
His coat he next views—but the coat who could doubt?
For his Y*rm---th's own Frenchified hand cut it out;
Every pucker and seam were made matters of state,
And a Grand Household Council was held on each plait.
Great C*mb*rl---d's Duke, with some kickshaw or other?
And kindly invent him more Christian-like shapes
For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes.
Ah! no—here his ardour would meet with delays,
For the Duke had been lately pack'd up in new Stays,
'Twould be devilish hard work to unpack him again.
As he made the puppets, why shouldn't he dress 'em?
“An excellent thought!—call the tailors—be nimble—
“Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and H*rtf---d her thimble;
“While Y*rm---th shall give us, in spite of all quizzers,
“The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors.”
Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be drest.
While Y*rm---th, with snip-like and brisk expedition,
Cuts up, all at once, a large Cath'lic Petition
In long tailors' measures, (the P---e crying “Well-done!”)
And first puts in hand my Lord Chancellor Eld---n.
[OMITTED]
That model of Princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of his hair. His conscience, however, would not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used, accordingly, to burn off his beard.—“timore tonsoris,” says Lampridius. (Hist. August. Scriptor.) The dissolute Ælius Verus, too, was equally attentive to the decoration of his wig. (See Jul. Capitolin.)— Indeed, this was not the only princely trait in the character of Verus, as he had likewise a most hearty and dignified contempt for his Wife.—See his insulting answer to her in Spartianus.
CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN,
UPON THE ADVANTAGE OF (WHAT IS CALLED) “HAVING LAW ON ONE'S SIDE.”
The Gentleman's Proposal.
S'ei piace, ei lice.”
To one frigid owner be tied;
Your prudes may revile, and your old ones look gloomy,
But, dearest, we've Law on our side.
Whom no dull decorums divide;
Their error how sweet, and their raptures how venial,
When once they've got Law on their side.
Then why should it now be decried?
If the Father has done it, why shouldn't the Son, too?
For so argues Law on our side.
By cold-blooded jurors be tried,
They can but bring it in “a misfortune,” my beauty,
As long as we've Law on our side.
The Lady's Answer.
For, grant me so faithless a bride,
Such sinners as we, are a little too lowly,
To hope to have Law on our side.
The People should look for their guide,
Then your Highness (and welcome!) might kick down decorum—
You'd always have Law on your side.
Whose heart, though it long ago died
To the pleasures of vice, is alive to its glory—
You still would have Law on your side.
By my advice therefore abide,
And leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles
Who have such a Law on their side.
OCCASIONAL ADDRESS FOR THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE OF ST. ST*PH*N,
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE PROPRIETOR IN FULL COSTUME, ON THE 24TH OF NOVEMBER, 1812.
We open, most thinking and right-headed nation!
Excuse the materials—though rotten and bad,
They're the best that for money just now could be had;
And, if echo the charm of such houses should be,
You will find it shall echo my speech to a T.
The same motley, odd, tragi-comical set;
And consid'ring they all were but clerks t'other day,
It is truly surprising how well they can play.
Our Manager , (he, who in Ulster was nurst,
And sung Erin go Brah for the galleries first,
Chang'd his note of a sudden, to God save the King,)
Still wise as he's blooming, and fat as he's clever,
Himself and his speeches as lengthy as ever,
Here offers you still the full use of his breath,
Your devoted and long-winded proser till death.
We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on)
One Mr. V---ns---tt---t, a good sort of person,
Who's also employ'd for this season to play,
In “Raising the Wind,” and “the Devil to Pay.”
We expect too—at least we've been plotting and planning—
To get that great actor from Liverpool, C*nn*g;
And, as at the Circus there's nothing attracts
Like a good single combat brought in 'twixt the acts,
If the Manager should, with the help of Sir P---ph---m,
Get up new diversions, and C*nn---g should stop 'em,
“Grand fight—second time—with additional capers.”
There is plenty of each in this House to be had.
Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be,
For a dead hand at tragedy always was he;
And there never was dealer in dagger and cup,
Who so smilingly got all his tragedies up.
His powers poor Ireland will never forget,
And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet.
Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery,
Y*rm---th and Cum are the best we can find,
To transact all that trickery business behind.
The former's employ'd too to teach us French jigs,
Keep the whiskers in curl, and look after the wigs.
A few Seats in the House, not as yet sold away,
May be had of the Manager, Pat C*stl*r---gh.
THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.
They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is;
(Except it be Cabinet-making;—no doubt,
In that delicate service they're rather worn out;
Though their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his own will,
Would have bungled away with them joyously still.)
You can see they've been pretty well hack'd—and alack!
What tool is there job after job will not hack?
Their edge is but dullish, it must be confess'd,
And their temper, like E---nb'r---h's, none of the best;
But you'll find them good hard-working Tools, upon trying,
Wer't but for their brass, they are well worth the buying;
And are, some of them, excellent turning machines.
Heavy concern to both purchaser and seller.
Though made of pig iron, yet worthy of note 'tis,
'Tis ready to melt at a half minute's notice.
Who bids? Gentle buyer! 'twill turn as thou shapest;
'Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist;
Or else a cramp-iron, to stick in the wall
Of some church that old women are fearful will fall;
Or better, perhaps, (for I'm guessing at random,)
A heavy drag-chain for some Lawyer's old Tandem.
Will nobody bid? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir—
Once, twice,—going, going,—thrice, gone!—it is yours, Sir.
To pay ready money you sha'n't be distrest,
As a bill at long date suits the Chancellor best.
This implement, Ge'mmen, at first was a Vice;
(A tenacious and close sort of tool, that will let
Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get;)
But it since has received a new coating of Tin,
Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in.
Come, what shall we say for it? briskly! bid on,
We'll the sooner get rid of it—going—quite gone.
God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knock'd down,
Might at last cost their owner—how much? why, a Crown!
Trial as yet, and is also a Chancellor—
Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross;
Yet, dull as it is, 'twill be found to shave close,
And like other close shavers, some courage to gather,
This blade first began by a flourish on leather.
At the terrible tinkering work there must be,
Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge it)
Is placed by ill luck at the top of the Budget!
“Of the taxes proposed by Mr. Vansittart, that principally opposed in Parliament was the additional duty on leather.” Ann. Register.
LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL.
A BALLAD.
DEDICATED TO THE RT. HON. CH*RL*S ABB*T.
Et cant-are pares.
1813.
And he said, “Little Soul, let us try, try, try,
“Whether it's within our reach
“To make up a little Speech,
“Just between little you and little I, I, I,
“Just between little you and little I!”—
Peeping from her little hole,
“But, if it's not uncivil,
“Pray tell me what the devil
“Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout,
“Must our little, little speech be about?”
With th' assistance of his wig,
And he call'd his little Soul to order, order, order,
Till she fear'd he'd make her jog in
To gaol, like Thomas Croggan,
(As she wasn't Duke or Earl) to reward her, ward her, ward her,
As she wasn't Duke or Earl, to reward her.
“Little soul, it is no joke,
“For as sure as J*cky F---ll---r loves a sup, sup, sup,
“I will tell the Prince and People
“What I think of Church and Steeple,
“And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up,
“And my little patent plan to prop them up.”
Little Man and little Soul
Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle,
And the world all declare
That this priggish little pair
Never yet in all their lives look'd so little, little, little,
Never yet in all their lives look'd so little!
REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON.
Hos cape fatorum comites.
Virgil.
And the Marshal must have them—pray, why should we not,
As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him,
Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him?
There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear,
Any men we could half so conveniently spare;
And, though they've been helping the French for years past,
We may thus make them useful to England at last.
C*stl*r---gh in our sieges might save some disgraces,
Being us'd to the taking and keeping of places;
And Volunteer C*nn---g, still ready for joining,
Might show off his talent for sly undermining.
Old H---df---t at horn-works again might be tried,
And the Ch---f J---st---e make a bold charge at his side:
While V---ns---tt---t could victual the troops upon tick,
And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.
Should, in times such as these, stay at home on the shelf:
Though through narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass,
Yet who could resist, if he bore down en masse?
And though oft, of an evening, perhaps he might prove,
Like our Spanish confed'rates, “unable to move ,”
Yet there's one thing in war of advantage unbounded,
Which is, that he could not with ease be surrounded.
At present no more, but—good luck to the shipment!
HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III.
A FRAGMENT.
Favete linguis: carmina non prius
Audita Musarum sacerdos
Virginibus puerisque canto.
Regum timendorum in proprios greges,
Reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis.
To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses,
Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself,
And, like G---dw---n, write books for young masters and misses.
Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry,
Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap:
Though the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry,
Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.
[OMITTED]
HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I.
A FRAGMENT TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. G---RGE R---SE.
Displicent nexæ philyra coronæ;
Mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum
Sera moretur.
Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nick-nackeries,
Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries—
Six by the Horse-Guards!—old Georgy is late—
But come—lay the table cloth—zounds! do not wait,
Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,
At which of his places Old R---e is delaying!
[OMITTED]
The literal closeness of the version here cannot but be admired. The Translator has added a long, erudite, and flowery note upon Roses, of which I can merely give a specimen at present. In the first place, he ransacks the Rosarium Politicum of the Persian poet Sadi, with the hope of finding some Political Roses, to match the gentleman in the text— but in vain: he then tells us that Cicero accused Verres of reposing upon a cushion “Melitensi rosâ fartum,” which, from the odd mixture of words, he supposes to be a kind of Irish Bed of Roses, like Lord Castlereagh's. The learned Clerk next favours us with some remarks upon a well-known punning epitaph on fair Rosamond, and expresses a most loyal hope, that, if “Rosa munda” mean “A Rose with clean hands” it may be found applicable to the Right Honourable Rose in question. He then dwells at some length upon the “Rosa aurea,” which, though descriptive, in one sense, of the old Treasury Statesman, yet, as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the same atmosphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the words “old Rose,” he winds up with the pathetic lamentation of the Poet “consenuisse Rosas.” The whole note indeed shows a knowledge of Roses, that is quite edifying.
IMPROMPTU UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.
Though a paradise each has been forc'd to resign,
That he never wore breeches, till turn'd out of his,
While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine.
LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.
While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand,
That the emblem they grav'd on his seal, was a child
With a thunderbolt plac'd in its innocent hand.
Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do;
For while they're in the Council and you in the Field,
We've the babies in them, and the thunder in you!
The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | ||