The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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| VI, VII. |
 | VIII, IX. |
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MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
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MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK.
MONDAY, MARCH 13. 1826.
The Budget—quite charming and witty—no hearing,
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;—
Great comfort to find, though the Speech isn't cheering,
That all its gay auditors were, every minute.
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;—
Great comfort to find, though the Speech isn't cheering,
That all its gay auditors were, every minute.
What, still more prosperity!—mercy upon us,
“This boy'll be the death of me”—oft as, already,
Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,
For Ruin made easy there's no one like Freddy.
“This boy'll be the death of me”—oft as, already,
Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,
For Ruin made easy there's no one like Freddy.
TUESDAY.
Much grave apprehension express'd by the Peers,Lest—calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts—
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Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets!! [OMITTED]
WEDNESDAY.
Little doing—for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art
To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table—
When the Members all meet, to make much of that part,
With which they so rashly fell out, in the Fable.
To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table—
When the Members all meet, to make much of that part,
With which they so rashly fell out, in the Fable.
It appear'd, though, to-night, that—as church-wardens, yearly,
Eat up a small baby—those cormorant sinners,
The Bankrupt-Commisioners, bolt very nearly
A mod'rate-siz'd bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners!
Eat up a small baby—those cormorant sinners,
The Bankrupt-Commisioners, bolt very nearly
A mod'rate-siz'd bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners!
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Nota bene—a rumour to-day, in the City,
“Mr. R*b*ns*n just has resign'd”—what a pity!
The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing,
When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin;
While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty,
A murmuring Stock-dove breath'd her ditty:—
“Mr. R*b*ns*n just has resign'd”—what a pity!
The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing,
When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin;
While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty,
A murmuring Stock-dove breath'd her ditty:—
Alas, poor Robin, he crow'd as long
And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;
But his note was small, and the gold-finch's song
Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
Who'll make his shroud?
And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;
But his note was small, and the gold-finch's song
Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
Who'll make his shroud?
“I,” said the Bank, “though he play'd me a prank,
“While I have a rag, poor Rob shall be roll'd in't,
“With many a pound I'll paper him round,
“Like a plump rouleau—without the gold in't.‘
[OMITTED]
“While I have a rag, poor Rob shall be roll'd in't,
“With many a pound I'll paper him round,
“Like a plump rouleau—without the gold in't.‘
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |