Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries.

  Brisk let us revel, while revel we may;

  For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away,

  And then people get fat,

  And infirm, and — all that,

  And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits,

  That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits;

  Thy whiskers, too, Yarmouth! — alas, even they,

  Tho’ so rosy they burn,

  Too quickly must turn

  (What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.

  Then why, my Lord Warden, oh! why should you fidget

  Your mind about matters you dont understand?

  Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot,

  Because “you,” forsooth, “have the pen in your hand!”

  Think, think how much better

  Than scribbling a letter,

  (Which both you and I

  Should avoid by the by,)

  How much pleasanter ’tis to sit under the bust

  Of old Charley,2 my friend here, and drink like a new one;

  While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just

  As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan.

  To Crown us, Lord Warden,

  In Cumberland’s garden

  Grows plenty of monk’s hood in venomous sprigs:

  While Otto of Roses

  Refreshing all noses

  Shall sweetly exhale from our

  whiskers and wigs.

  What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau

  In that streamlet delicious,

  That down midst the dishes,

  All full of gold fishes,

  Romantic doth flow? —

  Or who will repair

  Unto Manchester Square,

  And see if the gentle Marchesa be there?

  Go — bid her haste hither,

  And let her bring with her

  The newest No-Popery Sermon that’s going —

  Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing,

  All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,

  In the manner of — Ackerman’s Dresses for May!

  1 This and the following are extracted from a Work, which may, some time or other, meet the eye of the Public — entitled “Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion.”

  2 Charles Fox.

  HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.

  FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELDON.

  The man who keeps a conscience pure,

  (If not his own, at least his Prince’s,)

  Thro’ toil and danger walks secure,

  Looks big and black and never winces.

  No want has he of sword or dagger,

  Cockt hat or ringlets of Geramb;

  Tho’ Peers may laugh and Papists swagger,

  He doesnt care one single damn.

  Whether midst Irish chairmen going.

  Or thro’ St. Giles’s alleys dim,

  Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing,

  No matter, ’tis all one to him.

  For instance, I, one evening late,

  Upon a gay vacation sally,

  Singing the praise of Church and State,

  Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley.

  When lo! an Irish Papist darted

  Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big —

  I did but frown and off he started,

  Scared at me even without my wig.

  Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog

  Goes not to Mass in Dublin City,

  Nor shakes his brogue o’er Allen’s Bog,

  Nor spouts in Catholic Committee.

  Oh! place me midst O’Rourkes, O’Tooles,

  The ragged royal-blood of Tara;

  Or place me where Dick Martin rules

  The houseless wilds of Connemara;1

  Of Church and State I’ll warble still,

  Though even Dick Martin’s self should grumble;

  Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill,

  So lovingly upon a hill —

  Ah! ne’er like Jack and Jill to tumble!2

  1 I must here remark, that the said Dick Martin being a very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a “malus Jupiter” of him.

  2 There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the inseparability of Church and State, and their (what is called) “standing and falling together,” than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory.

  Jack fell down,

  And broke his Crown,

  And Jill came tumbling after.

  THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS.

  — nova monstra creavit.

  OVID. “Metamorph.” 1. i. v. 417.

  Having sent off the troops of brave Major Camac,

  With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back.

  And such helmets, God bless us! as never deckt any

  Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni —

  “Let’s see,” said the Regent (like Titus, perplext

  With the duties of empire,) “whom shall I dress next?”

  He looks in the glass — but perfection is there,

  Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts all right to a hair;1

  Not a single ex-curl on his forehead he traces —

  For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is,

  The falser they are, the more firm in their places.

  His coat he next views — but the coat who could doubt?

  For his Yarmouth’s own Frenchified hand cut it out;

  Every pucker and seam were made matters of state,

  And a Grand Household Council was held on each plait.

  Then whom shall he dress? shall he new-rig his brother,

  Great Cumberland’s Duke, with some kickshaw or other?

  And kindly invent him more Christianlike shapes

  For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes.

  Ah! no — here his ardor would meet with delays,

  For the Duke had been lately packt up in new Stays,

  So complete for the winter, he saw very plain

  ’Twould be devilish hard work to unpack him again.

  So what’s to be done? — there’s the Ministers, bless ’em! —

  As he made the puppets, why shouldnt he dress ’em?

  “An excellent thought! — call the tailors — be nimble —

  “Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and Hertford her thimble;

  “While Yarmouth shall give us, in spite of all quizzers,

  “The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors.”

  So saying, he calls Castlereagh and the rest

  Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be drest.

  While Yarmouth, with snip-like and brisk expedition,

  Cuts up all at once a large Catholic Petition

  In long tailors’ measures, (the Prince crying “Well-done!”)

  And first puts in hand my Lord Chancellor Eldon.

  1 That model of Princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of his hair. His conscience, however, would not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used, accordingly, to burn off his beard.

  CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN, UPON THE ADVANTAGE OF (WHAT IS CALLED) “HAVING LAW1

  ON ONE’S SIDE.”

  The Gentleman’s Proposal.

  Legge aurea,

  S’ei piace, ei lice.”

  Come fly to these arms nor let beauties so bloomy

  To one frigid owner be tied;

  Your prudes may revile and your old ones look gloomy,

  But, dearest, we’ve Law on our side.

  Oh! think the delight of two lovers congenial,

  Whom no dull decorums divide;

  Their error how sweet and their raptures how venial,

  When once they’ve got Law on their side.

>   ’Tis a thing that in every King’s reign has been done too:

  Then why should it now be decried?

  If the Father has done it why shouldnt the Son too?

  For so argues Law on our side.

  And even should our sweet violation of duty

  By cold-blooded jurors be tried,

  They can but bring it in “misfortune,” my beauty,

  As long as we’ve Law on our side.

  The Lady’s Answer.

  Hold, hold, my good Sir, go a little more slowly;

  For grant me so faithless a bride,

  Such sinners as we, are a little too lovely,

  To hope to have Law on our side.

  Had you been a great Prince, to whose star shining o’er ’em

  The People should look for their guide,

  Then your Highness (and welcome!) might kick down decorum —

  You’d always have Law on your side.

  Were you even an old Marquis, in mischief grown hoary,

  Whose heart tho’ it long ago died

  To the pleasures of vice, is alive to its glory —

  You still would have Law on your side.

  But for you, Sir, Crim. Con. is a path full of troubles;

  By my advice therefore abide,

  And leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles

  Who have such a Law on their side.

  1 In allusion to Lord Ellenborough.

  OCCASIONAL ADDRESS

  FOR THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE OF ST. STEPHEN, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE PROPRIETOR IN FULL COSTUME, ON THE 24TH OF NOVEMBER, 1812.

  This day a New House for your edification

  We open, most thinking and right-headed nation!

  Excuse the materials — tho’ rotten and bad,

  They’re the best that for money just now could be had;

  And if echo the charm of such houses should be,

  You will find it shall echo my speech to a T.

  As for actors, we’ve got the old Company yet,

  The same motley, odd, tragicomical set;

  And considering they all were but clerks t’other day,

  It is truly surprising how well they can play.

  Our Manager,1 (he who in Ulster was nurst,

  And sung Erin go Bragh for the galleries first,

  But on finding Pitt-interest a much better thing,

  Changed his note of a sudden to God save the King,)

  Still wise as he’s blooming and fat as he’s clever,

  Himself and his speeches as lengthy as ever.

  Here offers you still the full use of his breath,

  Your devoted and long-winded proser till death.

  You remember last season, when things went perverse on.

  We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on)

  One Mr. Vansittart, a good sort of person,

  Who’s also employed for this season to play,

  In “Raising the Wind,” and “the Devil to Pay.”2

  We expect too — at least we’ve been plotting and planning —

  To get that great actor from Liverpool, Canning;

  And, as at the Circus there’s nothing attracts

  Like a good single combat brought in ‘twixt the acts,

  If the Manager should, with the help of Sir Popham,

  Get up new diversions and Canning should stop ’em,

  Who knows but we’ll have to announce in the papers,

  “Grand fight — second time — with additional capers.”

  Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad,

  There is plenty of each in this House to be had.

  Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be,

  For a dead hand at tragedy always was he;

  And there never was dealer in dagger and cup,

  Who so smilingly got all his tragedies up.

  His powers poor Ireland will never forget,

  And the widows of Walcheren weep o’er them yet.

  So much for the actors; — for secret machinery,

  Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery,

  Yarmouth and Cum are the best we can find,

  To transact all that trickery business behind.

  The former’s employed too to teach us French jigs,

  Keep the whiskers in curl and look after the wigs.

  In taking my leave now, I’ve only to say,

  A few Seats in the House, not as yet sold away,

  May be had of the Manager, Pat Castlereagh.

  1 Lord Castlereagh.

  2 He had recently been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer.

  THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.

  Instrumenta regni. — TACITUS.

  Here’s a choice set of Tools for you, Ge’mmen and Ladies,

  They’ll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is;

  (Except it be Cabinet-making; — no doubt,

  In that delicate service they’re rather worn out;

  Tho’ their owner, bright youth! if he’d had his own will,

  Would have bungled away with them joyously still.)

  You see they’ve been pretty well hackt — and alack!

  What tool is there job after job will not hack?

  Their edge is but dullish it must be confest,

  And their temper, like Ellenborough’s, none of the best;

  But you’ll find them good hardworking Tools, upon trying,

  Were’t but for their brass they are well worth the buying;

  They’re famous for making blinds, sliders, and screens,

  And are some of them excellent turning machines.

  The first Tool I’ll put up (they call it a Chancellor),

  Heavy concern to both purchaser and seller.

  Tho’ made of pig iron yet worthy of note ’tis,

  ’Tis ready to melt at a half minute’s notice.1

  Who bids? Gentle buyer! ‘twill turn as thou shapest;

  ‘Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist;

  Or else a cramp-iron to stick in the wall

  Of some church that old women are fearful will fall;

  Or better, perhaps, (for I’m guessing at random,)

  A heavy drag-chain for some Lawyer’s old Tandem.

  Will nobody bid? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir —

  Once, twice, — going, going, — thrice, gone! — it is yours, Sir.

  To pay ready money you sha’n’t be distrest,

  As a bill at long date suits the Chancellor best.

  Come, where’s the next Tool? —

  Oh! ’tis here in a trice —

  This implement, Ge’mmen, at first was a Vice;

  (A tenacious and close sort of tool that will let

  Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get;)

  But it since has received a new coating of Tin,

  Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in.

  Come, what shall we say for it? briskly! bid on,

  We’ll the sooner get rid of it — going — quite gone.

  God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knockt down,

  Might at last cost their owner — how much? why, a Crown!

  The next Tool I’ll set up has hardly had handsel or

  Trial as yet and is also a Chancellor —

  Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross;

  Yet, dull as it is, ‘twill be found to shave close,

  And like other close shavers, some courage to gather,

  This blade first began by a flourish on leather.2

  You shall have it for nothing — then, marvel with me

  At the terrible tinkering work there must be,

  Where a Tool such as this is (I’ll leave you to judge it)

  Is placed by ill luck at the top of the Budget!

  1 An allusion to Lord Eldon’s lachrymose tendencies.

  2 Of the taxes proposed by Mr. Vansittart, that principally opposed in Parliament was the additional duty on leather.” — Ann. Regi
ster.

  LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL.

  A BALLAD.

  To the tune of “There was a little man, and he wooed a little maid.”

  DEDICATED TO THE RT. HON. CHARLES ABBOT.

  arcades ambo et cantare pares

  1813.

  There was a little Man and he had a little Soul,

  And he said, “Little Soul, let us try, try, try.

  “Whether it’s within our reach

  “To make up a little Speech,

  “Just between little you and little I, I, I,

  “Just between little you and little I!”

  Then said his little Soul,

  Peeping from her little hole,

  “I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout,

  “But, if it’s not uncivil,

  “Pray tell me what the devil,

  “Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout,

  “Must our little, little speech be about?”

  The little Man lookt big,

  With the assistance of his wig,

  And he called his little Soul to order, order, order,

  Till she feared he’d make her jog in

  To jail, like Thomas Croggan,

  (As she wasn’t Duke or Earl) to reward her, ward her, ward her,

  As she wasn’t Duke or Earl, to reward her.

  The little Man then spoke,

  “Little Soul, it is no joke,

  “For as sure as Jacky Fuller loves a sup, sup, sup,

  “I will tell the Prince and People

  “What I think of Church and Steeple.

  “And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up,

  “And my little patent plan to prop them up.”

  Away then, cheek by jowl,

  Little Man and little Soul

  Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle,

  And the world all declare

  That this priggish little pair

  Never yet in all their lives lookt so little, little, little.

  Never yet in all their lives lookt so little!

  REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON.

  suosque tibi commendat, Troja Penates hos cape fatorum comites. VERGIL.

  1813.

  As recruits in these times are not easily got

  And the Marshal must have them — pray, why should we not,

  As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him,

  Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him?

  There’s not in all England, I’d venture to swear,

  Any men we could half so conveniently spare;

  And tho’ they’ve been helping the French for years past,