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 |  |
Went to the Mad-house—saw the man
,
Who thinks, poor wretch, that, while the Fiend
Of Discord here full riot ran,
He, like the rest, was guillotin'd;—
But that when, under Boney's reign,
(A more discreet, though quite as strong one,)
The heads were all restor'd again,
He, in the scramble, got a wrong one.
Accordingly, he still cries out
This strange head fits him most unpleasantly;
And always runs, poor dev'l, about,
Inquiring for his own incessantly!
Who thinks, poor wretch, that, while the Fiend
Of Discord here full riot ran,
He, like the rest, was guillotin'd;—
But that when, under Boney's reign,
(A more discreet, though quite as strong one,)
The heads were all restor'd again,
He, in the scramble, got a wrong one.
Accordingly, he still cries out
This strange head fits him most unpleasantly;
And always runs, poor dev'l, about,
Inquiring for his own incessantly!
While to his case a tear I dropt,
And saunter'd home, thought I—ye Gods!
How many heads might thus be swopp'd,
And, after all, not make much odds!
For instance, there's V---s---tt---t's head—
(“Tam carum ” it may well be said)
If by some curious chance it came
To settle on Bill Soames's shoulders,
Th' effect would turn out much the same
On all respectable cash-holders:
Except that while, in its new socket,
The head was planning schemes to win
A zig-zag way into one's pocket,
The hands would plunge directly in.
And saunter'd home, thought I—ye Gods!
169
And, after all, not make much odds!
For instance, there's V---s---tt---t's head—
(“Tam carum ” it may well be said)
If by some curious chance it came
To settle on Bill Soames's shoulders,
Th' effect would turn out much the same
On all respectable cash-holders:
Except that while, in its new socket,
The head was planning schemes to win
A zig-zag way into one's pocket,
The hands would plunge directly in.
Good Viscount S---dm---h, too, instead
Of his own grave, respected head,
Might wear (for aught I see that bars)
Old Lady Wilhelmina Frump's—
So while the hand sign'd Circulars,
The head might lisp out “What is trumps?”—
The R*g---t's brains could we transfer
To some robust man-milliner,
The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon
Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on;
And, vice versâ, take the pains
To give the P---ce the shopman's brains,
One only change from thence would flow,
Ribbons would not be wasted so.
Of his own grave, respected head,
Might wear (for aught I see that bars)
Old Lady Wilhelmina Frump's—
So while the hand sign'd Circulars,
The head might lisp out “What is trumps?”—
The R*g---t's brains could we transfer
To some robust man-milliner,
170
Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on;
And, vice versâ, take the pains
To give the P---ce the shopman's brains,
One only change from thence would flow,
Ribbons would not be wasted so.
'Twas thus I ponder'd on, my Lord;
And, ev'n at night, when laid in bed,
I found myself, before I snor'd,
Thus chopping, swopping head for head.
At length I thought, fantastic elf!
How such a change would suit myself.
'Twixt sleep and waking, one by one,
With various pericraniums saddled,
At last I tried your Lordship's on,
And then I grew completely addled—
Forgot all other heads, od rot 'em!
And slept, and dreamt that I was—Bottom.
And, ev'n at night, when laid in bed,
I found myself, before I snor'd,
Thus chopping, swopping head for head.
At length I thought, fantastic elf!
How such a change would suit myself.
'Twixt sleep and waking, one by one,
With various pericraniums saddled,
At last I tried your Lordship's on,
And then I grew completely addled—
Forgot all other heads, od rot 'em!
And slept, and dreamt that I was—Bottom.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |