The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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THE BOY STATESMAN.
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
191
THE BOY STATESMAN.
BY A TORY.
“That boy will be the death of me.”
Matthews at Home.
Ah, Tories dear, our ruin is near,
With St---nl---y to help us, we can't but fall;
Already a warning voice I hear,
Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear,
“That boy—that boy'll be the death of you all.”
With St---nl---y to help us, we can't but fall;
Already a warning voice I hear,
Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear,
“That boy—that boy'll be the death of you all.”
He will, God help us!—not ev'n Scriblerius
In the “Art of Sinking” his match could be;
And our case is growing exceeding serious,
For, all being in the same boat as he,
If down my Lord goes, down go we,
Lord Baron St---nl---y and Company,
As deep in Oblivion's swamp below
As such “Masters Shallow” well could go;
And where we shall all both low and high,
Embalm'd in mud, as forgotten lie
As already doth Gr---h---m of Netherby!
But that boy, that boy!—there's a tale I know,
Which in talking of him comes à-propos.
Sir Thomas More had an only son,
And a foolish lad was that only one,
And Sir Thomas said, one day to his wife,
“My dear, I can't but wish you joy,
“For you pray'd for a boy, and you now have a boy,
“Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life.”
In the “Art of Sinking” his match could be;
And our case is growing exceeding serious,
For, all being in the same boat as he,
If down my Lord goes, down go we,
Lord Baron St---nl---y and Company,
As deep in Oblivion's swamp below
As such “Masters Shallow” well could go;
192
Embalm'd in mud, as forgotten lie
As already doth Gr---h---m of Netherby!
But that boy, that boy!—there's a tale I know,
Which in talking of him comes à-propos.
Sir Thomas More had an only son,
And a foolish lad was that only one,
And Sir Thomas said, one day to his wife,
“My dear, I can't but wish you joy,
“For you pray'd for a boy, and you now have a boy,
“Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life.”
Ev'n such is our own distressing lot,
With the ever-young statesman we have got;—
Nay ev'n still worse; for Master More
Wasn't more a youth than he'd been before,
While ours such power of boyhood shows,
That, the older he gets, the more juv'nile he grows,
And, at what extreme old age he'll close
His schoolboy course, heaven only knows;—
Some century hence, should he reach so far,
And ourselves to witness it heav'n condemn,
We shall find him a sort of cub Old Parr,
A whipper-snapper Methusalem;
Nay, ev'n should he make still longer stay of it,
The boy'll want judgment, ev'n to the day of it!
Meanwhile, 'tis a serious, sad infliction;
And, day and night, with awe I recall
The late Mr. Matthews' solemn prediction,
“That boy'll be the death, the death of you all.”
With the ever-young statesman we have got;—
Nay ev'n still worse; for Master More
Wasn't more a youth than he'd been before,
While ours such power of boyhood shows,
That, the older he gets, the more juv'nile he grows,
And, at what extreme old age he'll close
His schoolboy course, heaven only knows;—
Some century hence, should he reach so far,
And ourselves to witness it heav'n condemn,
We shall find him a sort of cub Old Parr,
A whipper-snapper Methusalem;
193
The boy'll want judgment, ev'n to the day of it!
Meanwhile, 'tis a serious, sad infliction;
And, day and night, with awe I recall
The late Mr. Matthews' solemn prediction,
“That boy'll be the death, the death of you all.”
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |