The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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 | III, IV. |
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| IV. |
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| V. |
| VI, VII. |
| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
254
MUSINGS, SUGGESTED BY THE LATE PROMOTION OF MRS. NETHERCOAT.
“The widow Nethercoat is appointed gaoler of Loughrea, in the room of her deceased husband.”
—Limerick Chronicle.
Whether as queens or subjects, in these days,
Women seem form'd to grace alike each station;—
As Captain Flaherty gallantly says,
“You, ladies, are the lords of the creation!”
Women seem form'd to grace alike each station;—
As Captain Flaherty gallantly says,
“You, ladies, are the lords of the creation!”
Thus o'er my mind did prescient visions float
Of all that matchless woman yet may be;
When, hark, in rumours less and less remote,
Came the glad news o'er Erin's ambient sea,
The important news—that Mrs. Nethercoat
Had been appointed gaoler of Loughrea;
Yes, mark it, History—Nethercoat is dead,
And Mrs. N. now rules his realm instead;
Hers the high task to wield the' uplocking keys,
To rivet rogues and reign o'er Rapparees!
Of all that matchless woman yet may be;
When, hark, in rumours less and less remote,
Came the glad news o'er Erin's ambient sea,
The important news—that Mrs. Nethercoat
Had been appointed gaoler of Loughrea;
Yes, mark it, History—Nethercoat is dead,
And Mrs. N. now rules his realm instead;
255
To rivet rogues and reign o'er Rapparees!
Thus, while your blust'rers of the Tory school
Find Ireland's sanest sons so hard to rule,
One meek-ey'd matron, in Whig doctrines nurst,
Is all that's ask'd to curb the maddest, worst!
Find Ireland's sanest sons so hard to rule,
One meek-ey'd matron, in Whig doctrines nurst,
Is all that's ask'd to curb the maddest, worst!
Show me the man that dares, with blushless brow,
Prate about Erin's rage and riot now;—
Now, when her temperance forms her sole excess;
When long-lov'd whiskey, fading from her sight,
“Small by degrees, and beautifully less,”
Will soon, like other spirits, vanish quite;
When of red coats the number's grown so small,
That soon, to cheer the warlike parson's eyes,
No glimpse of scarlet will be seen at all,
Save that which she of Babylon supplies;—
Or, at the most, a corporal's guard will be,
Of Ireland's red defence the sole remains;
While of its gaols bright woman keeps the key,
And captive Paddies languish in her chains!
Long may such lot be Erin's, long be mine!
Oh yes—if ev'n this world, though bright it shine,
In Wisdom's eyes a prison-house must be,
At least let woman's hand our fetters twine,
And blithe I'll sing, more joyous than if free,
The Nethercoats, the Nethercoats for me!
Prate about Erin's rage and riot now;—
Now, when her temperance forms her sole excess;
When long-lov'd whiskey, fading from her sight,
“Small by degrees, and beautifully less,”
Will soon, like other spirits, vanish quite;
When of red coats the number's grown so small,
That soon, to cheer the warlike parson's eyes,
No glimpse of scarlet will be seen at all,
Save that which she of Babylon supplies;—
Or, at the most, a corporal's guard will be,
Of Ireland's red defence the sole remains;
While of its gaols bright woman keeps the key,
And captive Paddies languish in her chains!
256
Oh yes—if ev'n this world, though bright it shine,
In Wisdom's eyes a prison-house must be,
At least let woman's hand our fetters twine,
And blithe I'll sing, more joyous than if free,
The Nethercoats, the Nethercoats for me!
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |