by Thomas Moore
“To think that, tho’ robbed all coarse manufactures,
“We still have our fine manufacture of Peers; —
“Those Gotielin productions which Kings take a pride
“In engrossing the whole fabrication and trade of;
“Choice tapestry things very grand on one side,
“But showing, on t’other, what rags they are made of.
The plan being fixt, raw material was sought, —
No matter how middling, if Tory the creed be;
And first, to begin with, Squire W — , ’twas thought,
For a Lord was as raw a material as need be.
Next came with his penchant for painting and pelf
The tasteful Sir Charles,1 so renowned far and near
For purchasing pictures and selling himself —
And both (as the public well knows) very dear.
Beside him Sir John comes, with equal éclat, in; —
Stand forth, chosen pair, while for titles we measure ye;
Both connoisseur baronets, both fond of drawing,
Sir John, after nature, Sir Charles, on the Treasury.
But, bless us! — behold a new candidate come —
In his hand he upholds a prescription, new written:
He poiseth a pill-box ‘twixt finger and thumb,
And he asketh a seat ‘mong the Peers of Great Britain!
“Forbid it,” cried Jenky, “ye Viscounts, ye Earls!
“Oh Rank, how thy glories would fall disenchanted,
“If coronets glistend with pills stead of pearls,
“And the strawberry-leaves were by rhubarb supplanted!
“No — ask it not, ask it not, dear Doctor Holford —
“If naught but a Peerage can gladden thy life,
“And young Master Holford as yet is too small for’t,
“Sweet Doctor, we’ll make a she Peer of thy wife.
“Next to bearing a coronet on our own brows
“Is to bask in its light from the brows of another;
“And grandeur o’er thee shall reflect from thy spouse,
“As o’er Vesey Fitzgerald ‘twill shine thro’ his mother.”2
Thus ended the First Batch — and Jenky, much tired
(It being no joke to make Lords by the heap),
Took a large dram of ether — the same that inspired
His speech ‘gainst the Papists — and prosed off to sleep.
1 Created Lord Farnborough.
2 Among the persons mentioned as likely to be raised to the Peerage are the mother of Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald, etc.
SPEECH ON THE UMBRELLA QUESTION.1
BY LORD ELDON.
1827.
“vos inumbrelles video.” — Ex Juvenil.
GEORGII CANNINGII.2
My Lords, I’m accused of a trick that God knows is
The last into which at my age I could fall —
Of leading this grave House of Peers by their noses,
Wherever I choose, princes, bishops and all.
My Lords, on the question before us at present,
No doubt I shall hear, “’Tis that cursed old fellow,
“That bugbear of all that is liberal and pleasant,
“Who won’t let the Lords give the man his umbrella!”
God forbid that your Lordships should knuckle to me;
I am ancient — but were I as old as King Priam,
Not much, I confess, to your credit ’twould be,
To mind such a twaddling old Trojan as I am.
I own, of our Protestant laws I am jealous,
And long as God spares me will always maintain,
That once having taken men’s rights, or umbrellas,
We ne’er should consent to restore them again.
What security have you, ye Bishops and Peers,
If thus you give back Mr. Bell’s parapluie,
That he mayn’t with its stick, come about all your ears,
And then — where would your Protestant periwigs be?
No! heaven be my judge, were I dying to-day,
Ere I dropt in the grave, like a medlar that’s mellow,
“For God’s sake” — at that awful moment I’d say —
“For God’s sake, don’t give Mr. Bell his umbrella.”
[“This address,” says a ministerial journal, “delivered with amazing emphasis and earnestness, occasioned an extraordinary sensation in the House. Nothing since the memorable address of the Duke of York has produced so remarkable an impression.”]
1 A case which interested the public very much at this period. A gentleman, of the name, of Bell, having left his umbrella behind him in the House of Lords, the doorkeepers (standing, no doubt, on the privileges of that noble body) refused to restore it to him; and the above speech, which may be considered as a pendant to that of the Learned Earl on the Catholic Question, arose out of the transaction.
2 From Mr. Canning’s translation of Jekyl’s —
“I say, my good fellows,
As you’ve no umbrellas.”
A PASTORAL BALLAD.
BY JOHN BULL.
Dublin, March 12, 1827. — Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country. — Freeman’s Journal.
I have found out a gift for my Erin,
A gift that will surely content her: —
Sweet pledge of a love so endearing!
Five millions of bullets I’ve sent her.
She askt me for Freedom and Right,
But ill she her wants understood; —
Ball cartridges, morning and night,
Is a dose that will do her more good.
There is hardly a day of our lives
But we read, in some amiable trials,
How husbands make love to their wives
Thro’ the medium of hemp and of vials.
One thinks, with his mistress or mate
A good halter is sure to agree —
That love-knot which, early and late,
I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee.
While another, whom Hymen has blest
With a wife that is not over placid,
Consigns the dear charmer to rest,
With a dose of the best Prussic acid.
Thus, Erin! my love do I show —
Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed!
And, as poison and hemp are too slow,
Do thy business with bullets instead.
Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken,
Ask Roden, that mildest of saints;
He’ll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken,
Alone can remove thy complaints; —
That, blest as thou art in thy lot,
Nothing’s wanted to make it more pleasant
But being hanged, tortured and shot,
Much oftener than thou art at present.
Even Wellington’s self hath averred
Thou art yet but half sabred and hung,
And I loved him the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from his tongue.
So take the five millions of pills,
Dear partner, I herewith inclose;
’Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill,
From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.
And you, ye brave bullets that go,
How I wish that, before you set out,
The Devil of the Freischütz could know
The good work you are going about.
For he’d charm ye, in spite of your lead.
Into such supernatural wit.
That you’d all of you know, as you sped,
Where a bullet of sense ought to hit.
A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.1
regnis EX sul ademptis. — Verg. 1827.
To Swanage — that neat little town in whose bay
Lord Bags2 took his annual trip t’other day,
To taste the sea breezes and chat with the dippers.
There — learned as he is in conundrums and laws —
Quoth he to his dame (whom he oft plays the wag on),
“Why are chancery suitors like bathers?”— “Because
Their suits are put off, till they haven’t a rag on.”
Thus on he went chatting — but, lo! while he chats,
With a face full of wonder around him he looks;
For he misses his parsons, his dear shovel hats,
Who used to flock round him at Swanage like rooks.
“How is this, Lady Bags? — to this region aquatic
“Last year they came swarming to make me their bow,
“As thick as Burke’s cloud o’er the vales of Carnatic,
“Deans, Rectors, D.D.’s — where the devil are they now?”
“My dearest Lord Bags!” saith his dame, “can you doubt?
“I am loath to remind you of things so unpleasant;
“But don’t you perceive, dear, the Church have found out
“That you’re one of the people called Ex’s, at present?”
“Ah, true — you have hit it — I am, indeed, one
“Of those ill-fated Ex’s (his Lordship replies),
“And with tears, I confess — God forgive me the pun! —
“We X’s have proved ourselves not to be Y’s.”
1 A small bathing-place on the coast of Dorsetshire, long a favorite summer resort of the ex-nobleman in question and, till this season, much frequented also by gentlemen of the church.
2 The Lord Chancellor Eldon.
WO! WO!1
Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it —
That beautiful Light which is now on its way;
Which beaming, at first, o’er the bogs of Belturbet,
Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!
Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee!
How formed to all tastes are thy various employs.
The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee;
The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.
Wo, wo to the man who such doings would smother! —
On, Luther of Bavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy!
With whip in one hand and with Bible in t’other,
Like Mungo’s tormentor, both “preachee and floggee.”
Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way;
Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition,
Popt Shakespeare, they say, in the river one day,
Tho’ ’twas only old Bowdler’s Velluti edition.
Come, Roden, who doubtest — so mild are thy views —
Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation;
Who leav’st to poor Paddy no medium to choose
‘Twixt good old Rebellion and new Reformation.
What more from her Saints can Hibernia require?
St. Bridget of yore like a dutiful daughter
Supplied her, ’tis said, with perpetual fire,2
And Saints keep her now in eternal hot water.
Wo, wo to the man who would check their career,
Or stop the Millennium that’s sure to await us,
When blest with an orthodox crop every year,
We shall learn to raise Protestants fast as potatoes.
In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know,
Had been trying their talent for many a day;
Till Farnham, when all had been tried, came to show,
Like the German flea-catcher, “anoder goot way.”
And nothing’s more simple than Farnham’s receipt; —
“Catch your Catholic, first — soak him well in poteen,
“Add salary sauce,3 and the thing is complete.
“You may serve up your Protestant smoking and clean.”
“Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!”
Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow4
Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery
Opened their bills and re-echoed “Wo! wo!”
1 Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Chester on the subject of the New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced “Wo! Wo! Wo!” pretty abundantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress.
2 The inextenguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare.
3 “We understand that several applications have lately been made to the Protestant clergymen of this town by fellows, inquiring ‘What are they giving a head for converts?’” — Wexford Post.
4 Of the rook species — Corvus frugilegus, i.e. a great consumer of corn.
TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.
“If in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not sneer at the name of Fot, or laugh at the imputed divinity of Visthnou.” — Courier, Tuesday. Jan. 16.
1827.
Come take my advice, never trouble your cranium,
When “civil advantages” are to be gained,
What god or what goddess may help to obtain you ’em,
Hindoo or Chinese, so they’re only obtained.
In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular)
All the good things to good hypocrites fall;
And he who in swallowing creeds is particular,
Soon will have nothing to swallow at all.
Oh place me where Fo (or, as some call him, Fot)
Is the god from whom “civil advantages” flow,
And you’ll find, if there’s anything snug to be got,
I shall soon be on excellent terms with old Fo.
Or were I where Vishnu, that four-handed god,
Is the quadruple giver of pensions and places,
I own I should feel it unchristian and odd
Not to find myself also in Vishnu’s good graces.
For among all the gods that humanely attend
To our wants in this planet, the gods to my wishes
Are those that, like Vishnu and others, descend
In the form so attractive, of loaves and of fishes!1
So take my advice — for if even the devil
Should tempt men again as an idol to try him,
‘Twere best for us Tories even then to be civil,
As nobody doubts we should get something by him.
1 Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) “a pisciform god,” — his first Avatar being in the shape of a fish.
ENIGMA.
monstrum nulla virtute redemptum.
Come, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
And tell me what my name may be.
I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old,
And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose; —
Tho’ a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),
I have, every year since, been out-growing my clothes:
Till at last such a corpulent giant I stand,
That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit,
It would take every morsel of scrip in the land
But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot.
Hence they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature,
To cover me nothing but rags will supply;
And the doctors declare that in due course of nature
About the year 30 in rags I shall die.
Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around,
An object of interest most painful to all;
In the warehouse, the cottage, the place I’m found,
Holding citizen, peasant, and king in nay thrall.
Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree,
Come
tell me what my name may be.
When the lord of the counting-house bends o’er his book,
Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw,
O’er his shoulders with large cipher eyeballs I look,
And down drops the pen from his paralyzed paw!
When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo,
And expects thro’ another to caper and prank it,
You’d laugh did you see, when I bellow out “Boo!”
How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket.
When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall
His cup, full of gout, to the Gaul’s overthrow,
Lo, “Eight Hundred Millions” I write on the wall,
And the cup falls to earth and — the gout to his toe!
But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram
My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy’s acres,
And knowing who made me the thing that I am,
Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers.
Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
And tell, if thou know’st, who I may be.
DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS.
BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN.
“vox clamantis in deserto.”
1827.
Said Malthus one day to a clown
Lying stretched on the beach in the sun, —
“What’s the number of souls in this town?” —
“The number! Lord bless you, there’s none.
“We have nothing but dabs in this place,
“Of them a great plenty there are; —
But the soles, please your reverence and grace,
“Are all t’other side of the bar.”
And so ’tis in London just now,
Not a soul to be seen up or down; —
Of dabs? a great glut, I allow,
But your soles, every one, out of town.
East or west nothing wondrous or new,
No courtship or scandal worth knowing;
Mrs. B — , and a Mermaid1 or two,
Are the only loose fish that are going.
Ah, where is that dear house of Peers
That some weeks ago kept us merry?
Where, Eldon, art thou with thy tears?
And thou with thy sense, Londonderry?
Wise Marquis, how much the Lord Mayor,
In the dog-days, with thee must be puzzled! —
It being his task to take care
That such animals shan’t go unmuzzled.
Thou too whose political toils
Are so worthy a captain of horse —