 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
LAMENT OF SCOTCH ECONOMISTS ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE ONE-POUND NOTES
“Do not halloo before you are out of the wood.”
Castlereagh, of blessed memory.
Oh hone-a-rie! Oh hone-a-rie!
The pride of paper's reign is o'er,
And fall'n the flower of credit's tree:
We ne'er shall see a flimsy more.
The pride of paper's reign is o'er,
And fall'n the flower of credit's tree:
We ne'er shall see a flimsy more.
129
Oh! sprung from great I-will-not-pay,
The chief that never feared a dun,
How hopeful was thy ne'er-come-day,
How comely thy symbolic One!
The chief that never feared a dun,
How hopeful was thy ne'er-come-day,
How comely thy symbolic One!
The country loons with wonder saw
The magic type perform its rounds,
Transforming many a man of straw
To men of many thousand pounds.
The magic type perform its rounds,
Transforming many a man of straw
To men of many thousand pounds.
For northern lads blithe days were those;
They wanted neither beef nor ale,
Surprised their toes with shoes and hose,
And made Scotch broo' of English cail.
They wanted neither beef nor ale,
Surprised their toes with shoes and hose,
And made Scotch broo' of English cail.
Oh! Johnny Groat, we little thought,
Tow'rds thee our noses e'er would point;
But flimsies burned, and cash returned,
Will put said noses out of joint.
Tow'rds thee our noses e'er would point;
But flimsies burned, and cash returned,
Will put said noses out of joint.
Improvements vast will then be past:
The march of mind will backward lead;
For how can mind be left behind,
When we march back across the Tweed?
The march of mind will backward lead;
For how can mind be left behind,
When we march back across the Tweed?
Scotch logic floats on one-pound notes:
When rags are cash our shirts are ore:
What else would go to scare the crow,
Becomes a myriad pounds and more.
When rags are cash our shirts are ore:
What else would go to scare the crow,
Becomes a myriad pounds and more.
A scarecrow's suit would furnish forth
A good Scotch bank's whole stock in trade:
The wig, for coinage nothing worth,
Might “surplus capital” be made.
A good Scotch bank's whole stock in trade:
The wig, for coinage nothing worth,
Might “surplus capital” be made.
130
Oh! happy land, by Scotchmen taught!
Thy fate was then indeed divine,
When every scarecrow's pole was thought
A true Real del Monte mine.
Thy fate was then indeed divine,
When every scarecrow's pole was thought
A true Real del Monte mine.
Oh mystic One, that turned out None,
When senseless panic pressed thee hard!
Who thee could hold and call out “Gold!”
Would he had feathered been and tarred.
When senseless panic pressed thee hard!
Who thee could hold and call out “Gold!”
Would he had feathered been and tarred.
Thy little fly-wheel kept in play
The mighty money-grinding mill;
When thou art rashly torn away,
The whole machine will stand stock still.
The mighty money-grinding mill;
When thou art rashly torn away,
The whole machine will stand stock still.
The host of promisers to pay
That fill their jugs on credit's hill,
Will each roll down and crack his crown,
As certainly as Jack and Jill.
That fill their jugs on credit's hill,
Will each roll down and crack his crown,
As certainly as Jack and Jill.
And we, God knows, may doff our hose
And sell our shoes for what they're worth,
And trudge again with naked toes
Back to our land of Nod, the north.
And sell our shoes for what they're worth,
And trudge again with naked toes
Back to our land of Nod, the north.
For, should we strain our lecturing throats,
We might to walls and doors discuss:
When John Bull sees through one-pound notes,
'Tis very clear he'll see through us.
We might to walls and doors discuss:
When John Bull sees through one-pound notes,
'Tis very clear he'll see through us.
That rare hotch-potch, the College Scotch,
Reared by our art in London town,
Will be at best a standing jest,
At least until it tumbles down.
Reared by our art in London town,
Will be at best a standing jest,
At least until it tumbles down.
131
Of those day-dreams, our free-trade schemes,
That laid in sippets goslings green,
The world will think less brain than drink
In skulls that hatched them must have been.
That laid in sippets goslings green,
The world will think less brain than drink
In skulls that hatched them must have been.
Then farewell shirts, and breeks, and coats,
Cloth, linen, cambric, silk, and lawn!
Farewell! with you, dear one-pound notes,
Mac Banquo's occupation's gone.
Cloth, linen, cambric, silk, and lawn!
Farewell! with you, dear one-pound notes,
Mac Banquo's occupation's gone.
The man who thrives with tens and fives
Must have some coin, and none have we!
Roast beef adieu! come barley broo'!
Oh hone-a-rie! Oh hone-a-rie!
Must have some coin, and none have we!
Roast beef adieu! come barley broo'!
Oh hone-a-rie! Oh hone-a-rie!
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |