The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
I feel th' inquiries in your letter
About my health and French most flattering;
Thank ye, my French, though somewhat better,
Is, on the whole, but weak and smattering:—
Nothing, of course, that can compare
With his who made the Congress stare
(A certain Lord we need not name),
Who ev'n in French, would have his trope,
And talk of “batir un systême
“Sur l'équilibre de l'Europe!”
Sweet metaphor!—and then th' Epistle,
Which bid the Saxon King go whistle,—
That tender letter to “Mon Prince ,”
Which show'd alike thy French and sense;—
Oh no, my Lord—there's none can do
Or say un-English things like you;
And, if the schemes that fill thy breast
Could but a vent congenial seek,
And use the tongue that suits them best,
What charming Turkish would'st thou speak!
But as for me, a Frenchless grub,
At Congress never born to stammer,
Nor learn like thee, my Lord, to snub
Fall'n Monarchs, out of Chambaud's grammar—
Bless you, you do not, cannot know
How far a little French will go;
For all one's stock, one need but draw
On some half-dozen words like these—
Comme ça—par-là—là-bas—ah ha!
They'll take you all through France with ease.
About my health and French most flattering;
Thank ye, my French, though somewhat better,
Is, on the whole, but weak and smattering:—
Nothing, of course, that can compare
With his who made the Congress stare
(A certain Lord we need not name),
Who ev'n in French, would have his trope,
And talk of “batir un systême
“Sur l'équilibre de l'Europe!”
166
Which bid the Saxon King go whistle,—
That tender letter to “Mon Prince ,”
Which show'd alike thy French and sense;—
Oh no, my Lord—there's none can do
Or say un-English things like you;
And, if the schemes that fill thy breast
Could but a vent congenial seek,
And use the tongue that suits them best,
What charming Turkish would'st thou speak!
But as for me, a Frenchless grub,
At Congress never born to stammer,
Nor learn like thee, my Lord, to snub
Fall'n Monarchs, out of Chambaud's grammar—
Bless you, you do not, cannot know
How far a little French will go;
For all one's stock, one need but draw
On some half-dozen words like these—
167
They'll take you all through France with ease.
The celebrated letter to Prince Hardenburgh (written, however, I believe, originally in English,) in which his Lordship, professing to see “no moral or political objection” to the dismemberment of Saxony, denounced the unfortunate King as “not only the most devoted, but the most favoured of Bonaparte's vassals.”
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |