Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  We may thus make them useful to England at last.

  Castlereagh in our sieges might save some disgraces,

  Being used to the taking and keeping of places;

  And Volunteer Canning, still ready for joining,

  Might show off his talent for sly under-mining.

  Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride,

  Old Headfort at horn-works again might be tried,

  And as Chief Justice make a bold charge at his side:

  While Vansittart could victual the troops upon tick,

  And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.

  Nay, I do not see why the great Regent himself

  Should in times such as these stay at home on the shelf:

  Tho’ thro’ narrow defiles he’s not fitted to pass,

  Yet who could resist, if he bore down en masse?

  And tho’ oft of an evening perhaps he might prove,

  Like our Spanish confederates, “unable to move,”1

  Yet there’s one thing in war of advantage unbounded,

  Which is, that he could not with ease be surrounded.

  In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment:

  At present no more, but — good luck to the shipment!

  1 The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John Murray’s memorable despatch.

  HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III.

  A FRAGMENT.

  odi profanum, valgus et arceo;

  favete linguis: carmina non prius

  audila Musarum sacerdos

  virginibus puerisque canto.

  regum timendorum in proprios greges,

  reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis.

  1813.

  I hate thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf;

  To Sir Francis I’ll give up thy claps and thy hisses,

  Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself,

  And, like Godwin, write books for young masters and misses.

  Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry,

  Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap:

  Tho’ the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry,

  Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.

  HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I.

  A FRAGMENT.

  persico odi, puer, adparatus;

  displicent nexae philyra coronae;

  mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum

  sera moretur.

  TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROBE.

  Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nicknackeries.

  Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries —

  Six by the Horse-Guards! — old Georgy is late —

  But come — lay the table-cloth — zounds! do not wait,

  Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,

  At which of his places Old Rose is delaying!

  * * * * *

  IMPROMPTU.

  UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

  1810.

  Between Adam and me the great difference is,

  Tho’ a paradise each has been forced to resign,

  That he never wore breeches, till turned out of his,

  While for want of my breeches, I’m banisht from mine.

  LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

  1813.

  So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled,

  While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand,

  That the emblem they graved on his seal, was a child

  With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

  Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield

  Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do;

  For while they’re in the Council and you in the Field.

  We’ve the babies in them, and the thunder in you!

  The following trifles, having enjoyed in their circulation through the newspapers all the celebrity and length of life to which they were entitled, would have been suffered to pass quietly into oblivion without pretending to any further distinction, had they not already been published, in a collective form, both in London and Paris, and, in each case, been mixed up with a number of other productions, to which, whatever may be their merit, the author of the following pages has no claim. A natural desire to separate his own property, worthless as it is, from that of others, is, he begs to say, the chief motive of the publication of this volume.

  TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

  effare causam nominis, utrumne mores hoc tui nomen dedere, an nomen hoc secuta morum regula. AUSONIUS.

  1816.

  Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Low,

  (By name, and ah! by nature so)

  As thou art fond of persecutions,

  Perhaps thou’st read, or heard repeated,

  How Captain Gulliver was treated,

  When thrown among the Lilliputians.

  They tied him down — these little men did —

  And having valiantly ascended

  Upon the Mighty Man’s protuberance,

  They did so strut! — upon my soul,

  It must have been extremely droll

  To see their pigmy pride’s exuberance!

  And how the doughty mannikins

  Amused themselves with sticking pins

  And needles in the great man’s breeches:

  And how some very little things,

  That past for Lords, on scaffoldings

  Got up and worried him with speeches,

  Alas, alas! that it should happen

  To mighty men to be caught napping! —

  Tho’ different too these persecutions;

  For Gulliver, there, took the nap,

  While, here, the Nap, oh sad mishap,

  Is taken by the Lilliputians!

  AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN BANK AND GOVERNMENT.

  1826.

  BANK.

  Is all then forgotten? those amorous pranks

  You and I in our youth, my dear Government, played;

  When you called me the fondest, the truest of Banks,

  And enjoyed the endearing advances I made!

  When left to ourselves, unmolested and free,

  To do all that a dashing young couple should do,

  A law against paying was laid upon me,

  But none against owing, dear helpmate, on you.

  And is it then vanisht? — that “hour (as Othello

  So happily calls it) of Love and Direction?”

  And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow,

  Grow good in our old age and cut the connection?

  GOVERNMENT.

  Even so, my beloved Mrs. Bank, it must be;

  This paying in cash plays the devil with wooing:

  We’ve both had our swing, but I plainly foresee

  There must soon be a stop to our billing and cooing.

  Propagation in reason — a small child or two —

  Even Reverend Malthus himself is a friend to;

  The issue of some folks is moderate and few —

  But ours, my dear corporate Bank, there’s no end to!

  So — hard tho’ it be on a pair, who’ve already

  Disposed of so many pounds, shillings and pence;

  And in spite of that pink of prosperity, Freddy,1

  So lavish of cash and so sparing of sense —

  The day is at hand, my Papyria2 Venus,

  When — high as we once used to carry our capers —

  Those soft billet-doux we’re now passing between us,

  Will serve but to keep Mrs. Coutts in curl-papers:

  And when — if we still must continue our love,

  (After all that has past) — our amour, it is clear,

  Like that which Miss Danäe managed with Jove,

  Must all be transacted in bullion, my dear!

  February, 1826.

  1 Honorable Fredrick Robinson.

  2 S
o called, to distinguish her from the Aure or Golden Venus.

  DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE.

  “o ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavet acres agna lupos, capreaeque leones.” — HOR.

  Said a Sovereign to a Note,

  In the pocket of his coat,

  Where they met in a neat purse of leather,

  “How happens it, I prithee,

  “That, tho’ I’m wedded with thee,

  “Fair Pound, we can never live together?

  “Like your sex, fond of change

  “With Silver you can range,

  “And of lots of young sixpences be mother;

  “While with me — upon my word,

  “Not my Lady and my Lord

  “Of Westmouth see so little of each other!”

  The indignant Note replied

  (Lying crumpled by his side),

  “Shame, shame, it is yourself that roam, Sir —

  “One cannot look askance,

  “But, whip! you’re off to France,

  “Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir.

  “Your scampering began

  “From the moment Parson Van,

  “Poor man, made us one in Love’s fetter;

  “‘For better or for worse’

  “Is the usual marriage curse,

  “But ours is all ‘worse’ and no ‘better.’

  “In vain are laws past,

  “There’s nothing holds you fast,

  “Tho’ you know, sweet Sovereign, I adore you —

  “At the smallest hint in life,

  “You forsake your lawful wife,

  “As other Sovereigns did before you.

  “I flirt with Silver, true —

  “But what can ladies do,

  “When disowned by their natural protectors?

  “And as to falsehood, stuff!

  “I shall soon be false enough,

  “When I get among those wicked Bank Directors.”

  The Sovereign, smiling on her,

  Now swore upon his honor,

  To be henceforth domestic and loyal;

  But, within an hour or two,

  Why — I sold him to a Jew,

  And he’s now at No. 10, Palais Royal.

  AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING.

  “quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?” VERGIL.

  1826.

  How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all

  The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn,1

  When you know, if one hasn’t a very high rental,

  ’Tis hardly worth while being very high born?

  Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life,

  On a question, my Lord, there’s so much to abhor in?

  A question-like asking one, “How is your wife?” —

  At once so confounded domestic and foreign.

  As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast;

  But Peers and such animals, fed up for show,

  (Like the well-physickt elephant, lately deceased,)

  Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

  You might see, my dear Baron, how bored and distrest

  Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale,

  When the force of the agony wrung even a jest

  From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord Lauderdale!2

  Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave

  A humor endowed with effects so provoking,

  That when the whole House looks unusually grave

  You may always conclude that Lord Lauderdale’s joking!

  And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth —

  Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms

  Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth,

  ‘Twixt those who have heirlooms, and those who’ve but looms!

  “To talk now of starving!” — as great Athol said3 —

  (And the nobles all cheered and the bishops all wondered,)

  “When some years ago he and others had fed

  “Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!”

  It follows from hence — and the Duke’s very words

  Should be publisht wherever poor rogues of this craft are —

  That weavers, once rescued from starving by Lords,

  Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after.

  When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians

  Made “Bread and the Circus” a cure for each row;

  But not so the plan of our noble physicians,

  “No Bread and the Treadmill,”’s the regimen now.

  So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose,

  As I shall my poetry — neither convinces;

  And all we have spoken and written but shows,

  When you tread on a nobleman’s corn,4

  how he winces.

  1 See the proceedings of the Lords, Wednesday, March 1, 1826, when Lord King was severely reproved by several of the noble Peers, for making so many speeches against the Corn Laws.

  2 This noble Earl said, that “when he heard the petition came from ladies’ boot and shoe-makers, he thought it must be against the ‘corns’ which they inflicted on the fair sex.”

  3 The Duke of Athol said, that “at a former period, when these weavers were in great distress, the landed interest of Perth had supported 1500 of them, it was a poor return for these very men now to petition against the persons who had fed them.”

  4 An improvement, we flatter ourselves, on Lord L.’s joke.

  THE SINKING FUND CRIED.

  “Now what, we ask, is become of this Sinking Fund — these eight millions of surplus above expenditure, which were to reduce the interest of the national debt by the amount of four hundred thousand pounds annually? Where, indeed, is the Sinking Fund itself?” — The Times.

  Take your bell, take your bell,

  Good Crier, and tell

  To the Bulls and the Bears, till their ears are stunned,

  That, lost or stolen,

  Or fallen thro’ a hole in

  The Treasury floor, is the Sinking Fund!

  O yes! O yes!

  Can anybody guess

  What the deuce has become of this Treasury wonder?

  It has Pitt’s name on’t,

  All brass, in the front,

  And Robinson’s scrawled with a goose-quill under.

  Folks well knew what

  Would soon be its lot,

  When Frederick and Jenky set hob-nobbing,1

  And said to each other,

  “Suppose, dear brother,

  “We make this funny old Fund worth robbing.”

  We are come, alas!

  To a very pretty pass —

  Eight Hundred Millions of score, to pay,

  With but Five in the till,

  To discharge the bill,

  And even that Five, too, whipt away!

  Stop thief! stop thief! —

  From the Sub to the Chief,

  These Gemmen of Finance are plundering cattle —

  Call the watch — call Brougham,

  Tell Joseph Hume,

  That best of Charleys, to spring his rattle.

  Whoever will bring

  This aforesaid thing

  To the well-known House of Robinson and Jenkin,

  Shall be paid, with thanks,

  In the notes of banks,

  Whose Funds have all learned “the Art of Sinking.”

  O yes! O yes!

  Can anybody guess

  What the devil has become of this Treasury wonder?

  It has Pitt’s name on’t,

  All brass, in the front,

  And Robinson’s, scrawled with a goose-quill under.

  1 In 1824, when the Sinking Fund was raised by the imposition of new taxes to the sum of five millions.

  ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES.

  BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE.

  “legiferoe Cereri Phoeboq
ue.” — VERGIL.

  Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know,

  (Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,)

  Adorned with somniferous poppies to show

  Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman’s Goddess.

  Behold in his best shooting-jacket before thee

  An eloquent ‘Squire, who most humbly beseeches.

  Great Queen of Mark-lane (if the thing doesnt bore thee),

  Thou’lt read o’er the last of his — never-last speeches.

  Ah! Ceres, thou knowest not the slander and scorn

  Now heapt upon England’s ‘Squirearchy, so boasted;

  Improving on Hunt,1 ’tis no longer the Corn,

  ’Tis the growers of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.

  In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us —

  Reviewers, economists — fellows no doubt

  That you, my dear Ceres and Venus and Bacchus

  And Gods of high fashion, know little about.

  There’s Bentham, whose English is all his own making, —

  Who thinks just as little of settling a nation

  As he would of smoking his pipe or of taking

  (What he himself calls) his “postprandial vibration.”2

  There are two Mr. Mills to whom those that love reading

  Thro’ all that’s unreadable call very clever; —

  And whereas Mill Senior makes war on good breeding,

  Mill Junior makes war on all breeding whatever!

  In short, my dear Goddess, old England’s divided

  Between ultra blockheads and superfine sages; —

  With which of these classes we landlords have sided

  Thou’lt find in my Speech if thou’lt read a few pages.

  For therein I’ve proved to my own satisfaction

  And that of all ‘Squires I’ve the honor of meeting

  That ’tis the most senseless and foul-mouthed detraction

  To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.

  On the contrary, such the “chaste notions”3 of food

  That dwell in each pale manufacturer’s heart,

  They would scorn any law, be it ever so good,

  That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art!

  And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day,

  Whom the Land and the Silk4 shall in fond combination

  (Like Sulky and Silky, that pair in the play,)5

  Cry out with one voice for High Rents and Starvation!