by Thomas Moore
“And give him some bread, I implore you!”
Quoth Corn then in answer to Cotton,
Perceiving he meant to make free —
“Low fellow, you’ve surely forgotten
“The distance between you and me!
“To expect that we Peers of high birth
“Should waste our illustrious acres,
“For no other purpose on earth
“Than to fatten curst calico-makers! —
“That Bishops to bobbins should bend —
“Should stoop from their Bench’s sublimity,
“Great dealers in lawn, to befriend
“Such contemptible dealers in dimity!
“No — vile Manufacture! ne’er harbor
“A hope to be fed at our boards; —
“Base offspring of Arkwright the barber,
“What claim canst thou have upon Lords?
“No — thanks to the taxes and debt,
“And the triumph of paper o’er guineas,
“Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,
“May defy your whole rabble of Jennys!”
So saying — whip, crack, and away
Went Corn in his chaise thro’ the throng,
So headlong, I heard them all say,
“Squire Corn will be down before long.”
THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT BUTTERWORTH.
“A Christian of the best edition.” — RABELAIS.
Canonize him! — yea, verily, we’ll canonize him,
Tho’ Cant is his hobby and meddling his bliss,
Tho’ sages may pity and wits may despise him,
He’ll ne’er make a bit the worse Saint for all this.
Descend, all ye Spirits, that ever yet spread
The dominion of Humbug o’er land and o’er sea,
Descend on our Butterworth’s biblical head,
Thrice-Great, Bibliopolist, Saint, and M. P.
Come, shade of Joanna, come down from thy sphere.
And bring little Shiloh — if ’tisn’t too far —
Such a sight will to Butterworth’s bosom be dear,
His conceptions and thine being much on a par.
Nor blush, Saint Joanna, once more to behold
A world thou hast honored by cheating so many;
Thou’lt find still among us one Personage old,
Who also by tricks and the Seals1 makes a penny.
Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee!2
Thy smiles to beatified Butterworth deign;
Two “lights of the Gentiles” are thou, Anne, and he,
One hallowing Fleet Street, and t’other Toad Lane!3
The heathen, we know, made their Gods out of wood,
And Saints may be framed of as handy materials; —
Old women and Butterworths make just as good
As any the Pope ever bookt as Ethereals.
Stand forth, Man of Bibles! — not Mahomet’s pigeon,
When perched on the Koran, he dropt there, they say,
Strong marks of his faith, ever shed o’er religion
Such glory as Butterworth sheds every day.
Great Galen of souls, with what vigor he crams
Down Erin’s idolatrous throats, till they crack again,
Bolus on bolus, good man! — and then damns
Both their stomachs and souls, if they dare cast them back again.
How well might his shop — as a type representing
The creed of himself and his sanctified clan —
On its counter exhibit “the Art of Tormenting,”
Bound neatly, and lettered “Whole Duty of Man!”
Canonize him! — by Judas, we will canonize him;
For Cant is his hobby and twaddling his bliss;
And tho’ wise men may pity and wits may despise him,
He’ll make but the better shop-saint for all this.
Call quickly together the whole tribe of Canters,
Convoke all the serious Tag-rag of the nation;
Bring Shakers and Snufflers and Jumpers and Ranters
To witness their Butterworth’s Canonization!
Yea, humbly I’ve ventured his merits to paint,
Yea, feebly have tried all his gifts to portray,
And they form a sum-total for making a Saint.
That the Devil’s own advocate could not gainsay.
Jump high, all ye Jumpers, ye Ranters all roar,
While Butterworth’s spirit, upraised from your eyes,
Like a kite made of foolscap, in glory shall soar,
With a long tail of rubbish behind, to the skies!
1 A great part of the income of Joanna Southcott arose from the Seals of the Lord’s protection which she sold to her followers.
2 Mrs. Anne Lee, the “chosen vessel” of the Shakers, and “Mother of all the children of regeneration.”
3 Toad Lane, in Manchester, where Mother Lee was born. In her “Address to Young Believers,” she says, that “it is a matter of no importance with them from whence the means of their deliverance come, whether from a stable in Bethlehem, or from Toad Lane, Manchester.”
AN INCANTATION.
SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT.
Air. — Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow.
Come with me and we will blow
Lots of bubbles as we go;
Bubbles bright as ever Hope
Drew from fancy — or from soap;
Bright as e’er the South Sea sent
From its frothy element!
Come with me and we will blow
Lots of bubbles as we go.
Mix the lather, Johnny Wilks,
Thou, who rhym’st so well to bilks;1
Mix the lather — who can be
Fitter for such tasks than thee,
Great M. P. for Sudsbury!
Now the frothy charm is ripe,
Puffing Peter,2 bring thy pipe, —
Thou whom ancient Coventry
Once so dearly loved that she
Knew not which to her was sweeter,
Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter; —
Puff the bubbles high in air,
Puff thy best to keep them there.
Bravo, bravo, Peter More!
Now the rainbow humbugs3 soar.
Glittering all with golden hues
Such as haunt the dreams of Jews; —
Some reflecting mines that lie
Under Chili’s glowing sky,
Some, those virgin pearls that sleep
Cloistered in the southern deep;
Others, as if lent a ray
From the streaming Milky Way,
Glistening o’er with curds and whey
From the cows of Alderney.
Now’s the moment — who shall first
Catch the bubbles ere they burst?
Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run,
Brogden, Teynham, Palmerston; —
John Wilks junior runs beside ye!
Take the good the knaves provide ye!
See, with upturned eyes and hands,
Where the Shareman, Brogden, stands,
Gaping for the froth to fall
Down his gullet — lye and all.
See! —
But, hark, my time is out —
Now, like some great water-spout,
Scattered by the cannon’s thunder,
Burst ye bubbles, all asunder!
[Here the stage darkens — a discordant crash is heard from the orchestra — the broken bubbles descend in a saponaceous but uncleanly mist over the heads of the Dramatis Personae, and the scene drops, leaving the bubble-hunters — all in the suds.]
1 Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes to names. Marvell thought so when he wrote “Sir Edward Button, The foolish Knight who rhymes to mutton.”
2 The member, during a long period, for Coventry.
3 An humble imitation of one of our modern
poets, who, in a poem against War, after describing the splendid habiliments of the soldier, thus apostrophizes him— “thou rainbow ruffian!”
A DREAM OF TURTLE.
BY SIR W. CURTIS.
1826.
’Twas evening time, in the twilight sweet
I sailed along, when — whom should I meet
But a Turtle journeying o’er the sea,
“On the service of his Majesty.”1
When spying him first thro’ twilight dim,
I didn’t know what to make of him;
But said to myself, as slow he plied
His fins and rolled from side to side
Conceitedly o’er the watery path —
“’Tis my Lord of Stowell taking a bath,
“And I hear him now, among the fishes,
“Quoting Vatel and Burgersdicius!”
But, no— ’twas, indeed, a Turtle wide
And plump as ever these eyes descried;
A turtle juicy as ever yet
Glued up the lips of a Baronet!
And much did it grieve my soul to see
That an animal of such dignity,
Like an absentee abroad should roam,
When he ought to stay and be ate at home.
But now “a change came o’er my dream,”
Like the magic lantern’s shifting slider;
I lookt and saw by the evening beam
On the back of that Turtle sat a rider —
A goodly man with an eye so merry,
I knew ’twas our Foreign Secretary,2
Who there at his ease did sit and smile,
Like Waterton on his crocodile;3
Cracking such jokes, at every motion,
As made the Turtle squeak with glee
And own they gave him a lively notion
Of what his forced-meat balls would be.
So, on the Sec. in his glory went.
Over that briny element,
Waving his hand as he took farewell
With graceful air, and bidding me tell
Inquiring friends that the Turtle and he
Were gone on a foreign embassy —
To soften the heart of a Diplomat,
Who is known to dote upon verdant fat,
And to let admiring Europe see,
That calipash and calipee
Are the English forms of Diplomacy.
1 We are told that the passport of this grand diplomatic Turtle (sent by the Secretary for Foreign Affairs to a certain noble envoy) described him as “on his majesty’s service.”
2 Mr. Canning.
3 Wanderings in South America. “It was the first and last time [says Mr. Waterton] I was ever on a crocodile’s back.”
THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.
A FABLE.
— “fessus jam sudat asellus, “parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus.” VERGIL. Copa.
A donkey whose talent for burdens was wondrous,
So much that you’d swear he rejoiced in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so ponderous,
That — down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road!
His owners and drivers stood round in amaze
What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy,
So easy to drive thro’ the dirtiest ways
For every description of job-work so ready!
One driver (whom Ned might have “hailed” as a “brother”)1
Had just been proclaiming his Donkey’s renown
For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other —
When, lo! mid his praises the Donkey came down!
But how to upraise him? — one shouts, t’other whistles,
While Jenky, the Conjuror, wisest of all,
Declared that an “over-production of thistles2 —
(Here Ned gave a stare) — was the cause of his fall.”
Another wise Solomon cries as he passes —
“There, let him alone and the fit will soon cease;
“The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,
“And this is his mode of ‘transition to peace.’”
Some lookt at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces
Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone —
“Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis,”
(The wise-acres said), “and he’s sure to jog on.”
Meanwhile, the poor Neddy in torture and fear
Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan;
And — what was still dolefuller — lending an ear
To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.
At length a plain rustic whose wit went so far
As to see others’ folly, roared out, as he past —
“Quick — off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
“Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!”
October, 1826.
1 Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge’s, addressed to an Ass, and beginning, “I hail thee, brother!”
2 A certain country gentleman having said in the House, “that we must return at last to the food of our ancestors,” somebody asked Mr. T. “what food the gentleman meant?”— “Thistles, I suppose,” answered Mr. T.
ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE.
1826.
Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions!
And oh! above all I admire that Decree,
In which thou command’st that all she politicians
Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea.
’Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster —
A maid who her faith in old Jeremy puts,
Who talks with a lisp of “the last new Westminster,”
And hopes you’re delighted with “Mill upon Gluts;”
Who tells you how clever one Mr. Funblank is,
How charming his Articles ‘gainst the Nobility; —
And assures you that even a gentleman’s rank is
In Jeremy’s school, of no sort of utility.
To see her, ye Gods, a new Number perusing —
ART. 1.— “On the Needle’s variations,” by Pl — ce;1
ART. 2. — By her Favorite Funblank2— “so amusing!
“Dear man! he makes Poetry quite a Law case.”
ART. 3.— “Upon Fallacies,” Jeremy’s own —
(Chief Fallacy being his hope to find readers);-
ART. 4.— “Upon Honesty,” author unknown; —
ART. 5. — (by the young Mr. Mill) “Hints to Breeders.”
Oh, Sultan, oh, Sultan, tho’ oft for the bag
And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call —
Tho’ drowning’s too good for each blue-stocking hag,
I would bag this she Benthamite first of them all!
And lest she should ever again lift her head
From the watery bottom, her clack to renew —
As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead,
I would hang around her neck her own darling Review.
1 A celebrated political tailor.
2 This pains-taking gentleman has been at the trouble of counting, with the assistance of Cocker, the number of metaphors in Moore’s “Life of Sheridan,” and has found them to amount, as nearly as possible, to 2235 — and some fractions.
CORN AND CATHOLICS.
utrum horum dirius borun? Incerti Auctoris.
What! still those two infernal questions,
That with our meals our slumbers mix —
That spoil our tempers and digestions —
Eternal Corn and Catholics!
Gods! were there ever two such bores?
Nothing else talkt of night or morn —
Nothing in doors or out of doors,
But endless Catholics and Corn!
Never was such a brace of pests —
While Ministers, still worse than either,
Skilled but in feathering their nests,
&nbs
p; Plague us with both and settle neither.
So addled in my cranium meet
Popery and Corn that oft I doubt,
Whether, this year, ’twas bonded Wheat,
Or bonded Papists, they let out.
Here, landlords, here polemics nail you,
Armed with all rubbish they can rake up;
Prices and Texts at once assail you —
From Daniel these, and those from Jacob,
And when you sleep, with head still torn
Between the two, their shapes you mix,
Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn —
Then Corn again seems Catholics.
Now Dantsic wheat before you floats —
Now Jesuits from California —
Now Ceres linkt with Titus Oats,
Comes dancing thro’ the “Porta Cornea.”1
Oft too the Corn grows animate,
And a whole crop of heads appears,
Like Papists, bearding Church and State —
Themselves, together by the ears!
In short these torments never cease,
And oft I wish myself transferred off
To some far, lonely land of peace
Where Corn or Papists ne’er were heard of.
Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole;
For — if my fate is to be chosen
‘Twixt bores and icebergs — on my soul,
I’d rather, of the two, be frozen!
1 The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, etc.) to pass.
A CASE OF LIBEL.
“The greater the truth, the worse the libel.”
A certain Sprite, who dwells below,
(‘Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,)
Came up incog. some years ago
To try for a change the London air.
So well he lookt and drest and talkt,
And hid his tail and horns so handy,
You’d hardly have known him as he walkt
From C —— e, or any other Dandy.
(His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew;
So he has but to take them out of the socket,
And — just as some fine husbands do —
Conveniently clap them into his pocket.)
In short, he lookt extremely natty,
And even contrived — to his own great wonder —
By dint of sundry scents from Gattie,
To keep the sulphurous hogo under.
And so my gentleman hoofed about,
Unknown to all but a chosen few
At White’s and Crockford’s, where no doubt
He had many post-obits falling due.
