The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD B*TH---ST'S TAIL.
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
287
LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD B*TH---ST'S TAIL.
All
in again—unlook'd for bliss!
Yet, ah, one adjunct still we miss;—
One tender tie, attach'd so long
To the same head, through right and wrong.
Why, B*th---st, why didst thou cut off
That memorable tail of thine?
Why—as if one was not enough—
Thy pig-tie with thy place resign,
And thus, at once, both cut and run?
Alas, my Lord, 'twas not well done,
'Twas not, indeed—though sad at heart,
From office and its sweets to part,
Yet hopes of coming in again,
Sweet Tory hopes! beguil'd our pain;
But thus to miss that tail of thine,
Through long, long years our rallying sign—
As if the State and all its powers
By tenancy in tail were ours—
To see it thus by scissors fall,
This was “the' unkindest cut of all!”
It seem'd as though the' ascendant day
Of Toryism had pass'd away,
And, proving Samson's story true,
She lost her vigour with her queue.
Yet, ah, one adjunct still we miss;—
One tender tie, attach'd so long
To the same head, through right and wrong.
Why, B*th---st, why didst thou cut off
That memorable tail of thine?
Why—as if one was not enough—
Thy pig-tie with thy place resign,
And thus, at once, both cut and run?
Alas, my Lord, 'twas not well done,
'Twas not, indeed—though sad at heart,
From office and its sweets to part,
Yet hopes of coming in again,
Sweet Tory hopes! beguil'd our pain;
But thus to miss that tail of thine,
Through long, long years our rallying sign—
288
By tenancy in tail were ours—
To see it thus by scissors fall,
This was “the' unkindest cut of all!”
It seem'd as though the' ascendant day
Of Toryism had pass'd away,
And, proving Samson's story true,
She lost her vigour with her queue.
Parties are much like fish, 'tis said—
The tail directs them, not the head;
Then, how could any party fail,
That steer'd its course by B*th---st's tail?
Not Murat's plume, through Wagram's fight,
E'er shed such guiding glories from it,
As erst, in all true Tories' sight,
Blaz'd from our old Colonial comet!
If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,
(As W*ll---gt*n will be anon)
Thou might'st have had a tail to spare;
But no, alas, thou hadst but one.
And that—like Troy, or Babylon,
A tale of other times—is gone!
Yet—weep ye not, ye Tories true—
Fate has not yet of all bereft us;
Though thus depriv'd of B*th---st's queue,
We've E---b---h's curls still left us;—
Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious,
His shots, as from nine-pounders, issues;
Grand, glorious curls, which, in debate,
Surcharg'd with all a nation's fate,
His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did ,
And oft in thundering talk comes near him;—
Except that, there, the speaker nodded,
And, here, 'tis only those who hear him.
Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil
Of that fat cranium may ye flourish,
With plenty of Macassar oil,
Through many a year your growth to nourish!
And, ah, should Time too soon unsheath
His barbarous shears such locks to sever,
Still dear to Tories, even in death,
Their last, lov'd relics we'll bequeath,
A hair-loom to our sons for ever.
The tail directs them, not the head;
Then, how could any party fail,
That steer'd its course by B*th---st's tail?
Not Murat's plume, through Wagram's fight,
E'er shed such guiding glories from it,
As erst, in all true Tories' sight,
Blaz'd from our old Colonial comet!
If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,
(As W*ll---gt*n will be anon)
Thou might'st have had a tail to spare;
But no, alas, thou hadst but one.
And that—like Troy, or Babylon,
A tale of other times—is gone!
289
Fate has not yet of all bereft us;
Though thus depriv'd of B*th---st's queue,
We've E---b---h's curls still left us;—
Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious,
His shots, as from nine-pounders, issues;
Grand, glorious curls, which, in debate,
Surcharg'd with all a nation's fate,
His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did ,
And oft in thundering talk comes near him;—
Except that, there, the speaker nodded,
And, here, 'tis only those who hear him.
Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil
Of that fat cranium may ye flourish,
With plenty of Macassar oil,
Through many a year your growth to nourish!
And, ah, should Time too soon unsheath
His barbarous shears such locks to sever,
Still dear to Tories, even in death,
Their last, lov'd relics we'll bequeath,
A hair-loom to our sons for ever.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |