by Thomas Moore
Long life to the Minister! — no matter who,
Or how dull he may be, if with dignified spirit he
Keeps the ports shut — and the people’s mouths too —
We shall all have a long run of Freddy’s prosperity,
And, as for myself, who’ve, like Hannibal, sworn
To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us,
Had England but One to stand by thee, Dear Corn,
That last, honest Uni-Corn6 would be Sir Thomas!
1 A sort of “breakfast-power,” composed of roasted corn, was about this time introduced by Mr. Hunt, as a substitute for coffee.
2 The venerable Jeremy’s phrase for his after-dinner walk.
3 A phrase in one of Sir Thomas’s last speeches.
4 Great efforts were, at that time, making for the exclusion of foreign silk.
5 “Road to Ruin.”
6 This is meant not so much for a pun, as in allusion to the natural history of the Unicorn, which is supposed to be, something between the Bos and the Asinus, and, as Rees’s Cyclopaedia assures us, has a particular liking for everything “chaste.”
A HYMN OF WELCOME AFTER THE RECESS.
“animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo.”
And now-cross-buns and pancakes o’er —
Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more!
Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain!
The short eclipse of April-Day
Having (God grant it!) past away,
Collective Wisdom, shine again!
Come, Ayes and Noes, thro’ thick and thin, —
With Paddy Holmes for whipper-in, —
Whate’er the job, prepared to back it;
Come, voters of Supplies — bestowers
Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers,
At eighty mortal pounds the jacket!1
Come — free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares —
Ye Senators of many Shares,
Whose dreams of premium knew no boundary;
So fond of aught like Company,
That you would even have taken tea
(Had you been askt) with Mr. Goundry.2
Come, matchless country-gentlemen;
Come, wise Sir Thomas — wisest then
When creeds and corn-lords are debated;
Come, rival even the Harlot Red,
And show how wholly into bread
A ‘Squire is transubstantiated,
Come, Lauderdale, and tell the world,
That — surely as thy scratch is curled
As never scratch was curled before —
Cheap eating does more harm than good,
And working-people spoiled by food,
The less they eat, will work the more.
Come, Goulburn, with thy glib defence
(Which thou’dst have made for Peter’s Pence)
Of Church-rates, worthy of a halter;
Two pipes of port (old port, ’twas said
By honest Newport)3 bought and paid
By Papists for the Orange Altar!4
Come, Horton, with thy plan so merry
For peopling Canada from Kerry —
Not so much rendering Ireland quiet,
As grafting on the dull Canadians
That liveliest of earth’s contagions,
The bull-pock of Hibernian riot!
Come all, in short, ye wondrous men
Of wit and wisdom, come again;
Tho’ short your absence, all deplore it —
Oh, come and show, whate’er men say,
That you can after April-Day,
Be just as — sapient as before it.
1 An item of expense which Mr. Hume in vain endeavored tog et rid of: — trumpeters, it appears like the men of All-Souls, must be “bene vestiti.”
2 The gentleman, lately before the public, who kept his Joint-Stock Tea Company all to himself, singing “Te solo adoro.”
3 Sir John Newport.
4 This charge of two pipes of port for the sacramental wine is a precious specimen of the sort of rates levied upon their Catholic fellow- parishioners by the Irish Protestants. “The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine.”
MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK.
MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826.
The Budget — quite charming and witty — no hearing,
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it; —
Great comfort to find, tho’ the speech isn’t cheering,
That all its gay auditors were every minute.
What, still more prosperity! — mercy upon us,
“This boy’ll be the death of me” — oft as, already,
Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,
For Ruin made easy there’s no one like Freddy.
TUESDAY.
Much grave apprehension exprest by the Peers,
Lest — calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts —
The large stock of gold we’re to have in three years,
Should all find its way into highwaymen’s pockets!1
WEDNESDAY.
Little doing — for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art
To the seven-o’-clock joys of full many a table —
When the Members all meet, to make much of that part,
With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.
It appeared, tho’, to-night, that — as church-wardens yearly,
Eat up a small baby — those cormorant sinners.
The Bankrupt Commissioners, bolt very nearly
A moderate-sized bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners!2
Nota bene — a rumor to-day, in the city,
“Mr. Robinson just has resigned” — what a pity!
The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing,
When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin:
While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty,
A murmuring Stock-dove breathed her ditty: —
Alas, poor Robin, he crowed as long
And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;
But his note was small and the gold-finch’s song
Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
Who’ll make his shroud?
“I,” said the Bank, “tho’ he played me a prank,
“While I have a rag, poor Rob shall be rolled in’t,
“With many a pound I’ll paper him round,
“Like a plump rouleau — without the gold in it.”
1 “Another objection to a metallic currency was, that it produced a greater number of highway robberies.” — Debate in the Lords.
2 Mr. Abercromby’s statement of the enormous tavern bills of the Commissioners of Bankrupts.
ALL IN THE FAMILY WAY.
A NEW PASTORAL BALLAD.
(SUNG IN THE CHARACTER OF BRITANNIA.)
“The Public Debt is due from ourselves to ourselves, and resolves itself into a Family Account.” — Sir Robert Peel’s Letter.
Tune — My banks are all furnisht with bees.
My banks are all furnisht with rags,
So thick, even Freddy can’t thin ’em;
I’ve torn up my old money-bags,
Having little or nought to put in ’em.
My tradesmen are smashing by dozens,
But this is all nothing, they say;
For bankrupts since Adam are cousins, —
So, it’s all in the family way.
My Debt not a penny takes from me.
As sages the matter explain; —
Bob owes it to Tom, and then Tommy
Just owes it to Bob back again.
Since all have thus taken to owing,
There’s nobody left that can pay;
And this is the way to keep going, —
All quite in the family way.
My senators vote away millions,
To put in Prosperity’s budget;
And tho’ it were billions or trillions,
The gene
rous rogues wouldnt grudge it.
’Tis all but a family hop,
’Twas Pitt began dancing the hay;
Hands round! — why the deuce should we stop?
’Tis all in the family way.
My laborers used to eat mutton,
As any great man of the State does;
And now the poor devils are put on
Small rations of tea and potatoes.
But cheer up, John, Sawney, and Paddy,
The King is your father, they say;
So even if you starve for your Daddy,
’Tis all in the family way.
My rich manufacturers tumble,
My poor ones have nothing to chew;
And even if themselves do not grumble
Their stomachs undoubtedly do.
But coolly to fast en famille,
Is as good for the soul as to pray;
And famine itself is genteel,
When one starves in a family way.
I have found out a secret for Freddy,
A secret for next Budget day;
Tho’ perhaps he may know it already,
As he too’s a sage in his way.
When next for the Treasury scene he
Announces “the Devil to pay,”
Let him write on the bills, “nota bene,
“’Tis all in the family way.”
BALLAD FOR THE CAMBRIDGE ELECTION.
“I authorized my Committee to take the step which they did, of
proposing a fair comparison of strength, upon the understanding that
whichever of the two should prove to be the weakest, should
give way to the other.”
— Extract from Mr. W. J. Bankes’s Letter to Mr. Goulbourn.
Bankes is weak, and Goulbourn too,
No one e’er the fact denied; —
Which is “weakest” of the two,
Cambridge can alone decide.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.
Goulbourn of the Pope afraid is,
Bankes, as much afraid as he;
Never yet did two old ladies
On this point so well agree.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest. Cambridge, say.
Each a different mode pursues,
Each the same conclusion reaches;
Bankes is foolish in Reviews,
Goulbourn foolish in his speeches.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.
Each a different foe doth damn,
When his own affairs have gone ill;
Bankes he damneth Buckingham,
Goulbourn damneth Dan O’Connell.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.
Once we know a horse’s neigh
Fixt the election to a throne,
So whichever first shall bray
Choose him, Cambridge, for thy own.
Choose him, choose him by his bray,
Thus elect him, Cambridge, pray.
June, 1826.
MR. ROGER DODSWORTH.
1826.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.
Sir — Having just heard of the wonderful resurrection of Mr. Roger Dodsworth from under an avalanche, where he had remained, bien frappe, it seems, for the last 166 years, I hasten to impart to you a few reflections on the subject. — Yours, etc.
Laudator Temporis Acti.
What a lucky turn-up! — just as Eldon’s withdrawing,
To find thus a gentleman, frozen in the year
Sixteen hundred and sixty, who only wants thawing
To serve for our times quite as well as the Peer; —
To bring thus to light, not the Wisdom alone
Of our Ancestors, such as ’tis found on our shelves,
But in perfect condition, full-wigged and full-grown,
To shovel up one of those wise bucks themselves!
Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth and send him safe home —
Let him learn nothing useful or new on the way;
With his wisdom kept snug from the light let him come,
And our Tories will hail him with “Hear!” and “Hurrah!”
What a God-send to them! — a good, obsolete man,
Who has never of Locke or Voltaire been a reader; —
Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth as fast as you can,
And the Lonsdales and Hertfords shall choose him for leader.
Yes, Sleeper of Ages, thou shalt be their chosen;
And deeply with thee will they sorrow, good men,
To think that all Europe has, since thou wert frozen,
So altered thou hardly wilt know it again.
And Eldon will weep o’er each sad innovation
Such oceans of tears, thou wilt fancy that he
Has been also laid up in a long congelation,
And is only now thawing, dear Roger, like thee.
COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH.
FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS SATANIC MAJESTY.
St. James’s Street, July 1, 1826.
Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch
An official young demon, preparing to go,
Ready booted and spurred, with a black-leg despatch
From the Hell here at Crockford’s, to our Hell below —
I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic,
To say that first having obeyed your directions
And done all the mischief I could in “the Panic,”
My next special care was to help the Elections.
Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul,
When every good Christian tormented his brother,
And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal,
From all coming down, ready grilled by each other;
Remembering besides how it pained thee to part
With the old Penal Code — that chef-d’oeuvre of Law,
In which (tho’ to own it too modest thou art)
We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;
I thought, as we ne’er can those good times revive,
(Tho’ Eldon, with help from your Highness would try,)
’Twould still keep a taste for Hell’s music alive,
Could we get up a thundering No-Popery cry; —
That yell which when chorused by laics and clerics,
So like is to ours, in its spirit and tone.
That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics,
To think that Religion should make it her own.
So, having sent down for the original notes
Of the chorus as sung by your Majesty’s choir
With a few pints of lava to gargle the throats
Of myself and some others who sing it “with fire,”1
Thought I, “if the Marseillais Hymn could command
“Such audience, tho’ yelled by a Sans-culotte crew
“What wonders shall we do, who’ve men in our band,
“That not only wear breeches but petticoats too.”
Such then were my hopes, but with sorrow, your Highness,
I’m forced to confess — be the cause what it will,
Whether fewness of voices or hoarseness or shyness, —
Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill.
The truth is no placeman now knows his right key,
The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various;
And certain base voices, that lookt for a fee
At the York music-meeting now think it precarious.
Even some of our Reverends might have been warmer, —
Tho’ one or two capital roarers we’ve had;
Doctor Wise2is for instance a charming performer,
And Huntingdon Maberley’s yell was not bad!
Altogether however the thing was not
hearty; —
Even Eldon allows we got on but so so;
And when next we attempt a No-Popery party,
We must, please your Highness, recruit from below.
But hark! the young Black-leg is cracking his whip —
Excuse me, Great Sir-there’s no time to be civil; —
The next opportunity shan’t be let slip,
But, till then,
I’m, in haste, your most dutiful
DEVIL.
July, 1826
1 Con fuoco — a music-book direction.
2 This reverend gentleman distinguished himself at the Reading election.
THE MILLENNIUM.
SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRVING “ON PROPHECY.”
1826
A millennium at hand! — I’m delighted to hear it —
As matters both public and private now go,
With multitudes round us all starving or near it.
A good, rich Millennium will come à-propos.
Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold,
Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags,
A bran-new Jerusalem built all of gold,
Sound bullion throughout from the roof to the flags —
A City where wine and cheap corn1 shall abound —
A celestial Cocaigne on whose buttery shelves
We may swear the best things of this world will be found,
As your Saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!
Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures Elysian,
Divine Squintifobus who, placed within reach
Of two opposite worlds, by a twist of your vision
Can cast at the same time a sly look at each; —
Thanks, thanks for the hope thou affordest, that we
May even in our own times a Jubilee share.
Which so long has been promist by prophets like thee,
And so often postponed, we began to despair.
There was Whiston2 who learnedly took Prince Eugene
For the man who must bring the Millennium about;
There’s Faber whose pious productions have been
All belied ere his book’s first edition was out; —
There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M. P.,
Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat,
And, each day of his life sat expecting to see
A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh!3
There was also — but why should I burden my lay
With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving,
When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way