The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
| V. |
| VI, VII. |
 | VIII, IX. |
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WRITE ON, WRITE ON.
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
15
WRITE ON, WRITE ON.
A BALLAD.
Salvete, fratres Asini.
St. Francis.
Write on, write on, ye Barons dear,
Ye Dukes, write hard and fast;
The good we've sought for many a year
Your quills will bring at last.
One letter more, N---wc---stle, pen,
To match Lord K---ny---n's two,
And more than Ireland's host of men,
One brace of Peers will do.
Write on, write on, &c.
Ye Dukes, write hard and fast;
The good we've sought for many a year
Your quills will bring at last.
One letter more, N---wc---stle, pen,
To match Lord K---ny---n's two,
And more than Ireland's host of men,
One brace of Peers will do.
Write on, write on, &c.
Sure, never, since the precious use
Of pen and ink began,
Did letters, writ by fools, produce
Such signal good to man.
While intellect, 'mong high and low,
Is marching on, they say,
Give me the Dukes and Lords, who go,
Like crabs, the other way.
Write on, write on, &c.
Of pen and ink began,
Did letters, writ by fools, produce
Such signal good to man.
16
Is marching on, they say,
Give me the Dukes and Lords, who go,
Like crabs, the other way.
Write on, write on, &c.
Ev'n now I feel the coming light—
Ev'n now, could Folly lure
My Lord M---ntc---sh---l, too, to write,
Emancipation's sure.
By geese (we read in history),
Old Rome was sav'd from ill;
And now, to quills of geese, we see
Old Rome indebted still.
Write on, write on, &c.
Ev'n now, could Folly lure
My Lord M---ntc---sh---l, too, to write,
Emancipation's sure.
By geese (we read in history),
Old Rome was sav'd from ill;
And now, to quills of geese, we see
Old Rome indebted still.
Write on, write on, &c.
Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style,
Nor beat for sense about—
Things, little worth a Noble's while,
You're better far without.
Oh ne'er, since asses spoke of yore,
Such miracles were done;
For, write but four such letters more,
And Freedom's cause is won!
Nor beat for sense about—
Things, little worth a Noble's while,
You're better far without.
Oh ne'er, since asses spoke of yore,
Such miracles were done;
For, write but four such letters more,
And Freedom's cause is won!
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |