The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
 | V. |
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| 1. |
| 2. |
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| VI, VII. |
| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
197
MUSINGS OF AN UNREFORMED PEER.
Of all the odd plans of this monstrously queer age,
The oddest is that of reforming the peerage;—
Just as if we, great dons, with a title and star
Did not get on exceedingly well, as we are,
And perform all the functions of noodles, by birth,
As completely as any born noodles on earth.
The oddest is that of reforming the peerage;—
Just as if we, great dons, with a title and star
Did not get on exceedingly well, as we are,
And perform all the functions of noodles, by birth,
As completely as any born noodles on earth.
How acres descend, is in law-books display'd,
But we as wiseacres descend, ready made;
And, by right of our rank in Debrett's nomenclature,
Are, all of us, born legislators by nature;—
Like ducklings, to water instinctly taking,
So we, with like quackery, take to law-making;
And God forbid any reform should come o'er us,
To make us more wise than our sires were before us.
But we as wiseacres descend, ready made;
And, by right of our rank in Debrett's nomenclature,
Are, all of us, born legislators by nature;—
Like ducklings, to water instinctly taking,
So we, with like quackery, take to law-making;
And God forbid any reform should come o'er us,
To make us more wise than our sires were before us.
The' Egyptians of old the same policy knew—
If your sire was a cook, you must be a cook too:
Thus making, from father to son, a good trade of it,
Poisoners by right (so no more could be said of it),
The cooks, like our lordships, a pretty mess made of it;
While, fam'd for conservative stomachs, th' Egyptians
Without a wry face bolted all the prescriptions.
If your sire was a cook, you must be a cook too:
198
Poisoners by right (so no more could be said of it),
The cooks, like our lordships, a pretty mess made of it;
While, fam'd for conservative stomachs, th' Egyptians
Without a wry face bolted all the prescriptions.
It is true, we've among us some peers of the past,
Who keep pace with the present most awfully fast—
Fruits, that ripen beneath the new light now arising
With speed that to us, old conserves, is surprising,
Conserves, in whom—potted, for grandmamma uses—
'Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices.
'Tis true, too, I fear, midst the general movement,
Ev'n our House, God help it, is doom'd to improvement,
And all its live furniture, nobly descended,
But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended.
With moveables 'mong us, like Br---m and like D---rh---m,
No wonder ev'n fixtures should learn to bestir 'em;
And, distant, ye gods, be that terrible day,
When—as playful Old Nick, for his pastime, they say,
Flies off with old houses, sometimes, in a storm—
So ours may be whipt off, some night, by Reform;
And, as up, like Loretto's fam'd house , through the air,
Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear,
Grim, radical phizzes, unus'd to the sky,
Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us “good-by,”
While, perch'd up on clouds, little imps of plebeians,
Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Pæans.
Who keep pace with the present most awfully fast—
Fruits, that ripen beneath the new light now arising
With speed that to us, old conserves, is surprising,
Conserves, in whom—potted, for grandmamma uses—
'Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices.
'Tis true, too, I fear, midst the general movement,
Ev'n our House, God help it, is doom'd to improvement,
And all its live furniture, nobly descended,
But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended.
With moveables 'mong us, like Br---m and like D---rh---m,
No wonder ev'n fixtures should learn to bestir 'em;
199
When—as playful Old Nick, for his pastime, they say,
Flies off with old houses, sometimes, in a storm—
So ours may be whipt off, some night, by Reform;
And, as up, like Loretto's fam'd house , through the air,
Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear,
Grim, radical phizzes, unus'd to the sky,
Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us “good-by,”
While, perch'd up on clouds, little imps of plebeians,
Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Pæans.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |