by Thomas Moore
Might tell how it roared in Rathdowne,
How from Dawson it died off genteelly —
How hollow it hung from the crown
Of the fat-pated Marquis of Ely;
How on hearing my Lord of Glandine,
Thistle-eaters the stoutest gave way,
Outdone in their own special line
By the forty-ass power of his bray!
But, no — for so humble a bard
’Tis a subject too trying to touch on;
Such noblemen’s names are too hard,
And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.
Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill,
Of the dell and the deep-sounding shelves;
If in spite of Narcissus you still
Take to fools who are charmed with themselves,
Who knows but, some morning retiring,
To walk by the Trent’s wooded side,
You may meet with Newcastle, admiring
His own lengthened ears in the tide!
Or, on into Cambria straying,
Find Kenyon, that double tongued elf,
In his love of ass-cendency, braying
A Brunswick duet with himself!
1 “Let us from Clubs.”
2 Commonly called “Paddy Blake’s Echoes”.
3 Anti-Catholic associations, under the title of Brunswick Clubs, were at this time becoming numerous both in England and Ireland.
INCANTATION.
FROM THE NEW TRAGEDY OF “THE BRUNSWICKERS.”
SCENE. — Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder. — Enter three Brunswickers.
1st Bruns. — Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawled,
2d Bruns. — Once hath fool Newcastle bawled,
3d Bruns. — Bexley snores:— ’tis time, ’tis time,
1st Bruns. — Round about the caldron go;
In the poisonous nonsense throw.
Bigot spite that long hath grown
Like a toad within a stone,
Sweltering in the heart of Scott,
Boil we in the Brunswick pot.
All. — Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Eldon, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.
2d Bruns. — Slaver from Newcastle’s quill
In the noisome mess distil,
Brimming high our Brunswick broth
Both with venom and with froth.
Mix the brains (tho’ apt to hash ill,
Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel,
With that malty stuff which Chandos
Drivels as no other man does.
Catch (i. e. if catch you can)
One idea, spick and span,
From my Lord of Salisbury, —
One idea, tho’ it be
Smaller than the “happy flea”
Which his sire in sonnet terse
Wedded to immortal verse.1
Tho’ to rob the son is sin,
Put his one idea in;
And, to keep it company,
Let that conjuror Winchelsea
Drop but half another there,
If he hath so much to spare.
Dreams of murders and of arsons,
Hatched in heads of Irish parsons,
Bring from every hole and corner,
Where ferocious priests like Horner
Purely for religious good
Cry aloud for Papist’s blood,
Blood for Wells, and such old women,
At their ease to wade and swim in.
All. — Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.
3d Bruns. — Now the charm begin to brew;
Sisters, sisters, add thereto
Scraps of Lethbridge’s old speeches,
Mixt with leather from his breeches,
Rinsings of old Bexley’s brains,
Thickened (if you’ll take the pains)
With that pulp which rags create,
In their middle nympha state,
Ere, like insects frail and sunny,
Forth they wing abroad as money.
There — the Hell-broth we’ve enchanted —
Now but one thing more is wanted.
Squeeze o’er all that Orange juice,
Castlereagh keeps corkt for use,
Which, to work the better spell, is
Colored deep with blood of —— ,
Blood, of powers far more various,
Even than that of Januarius,
Since so great a charm hangs o’er it,
England’s parsons bow before it,
All. — Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.
2d Bruns. — Cool it now with — — ‘s blood,
So the charm is firm and good.
[exeunt.
1 Alluding to a well-known lyric composition of the late Marquis, which, with a slight alteration, might be addressed either to a flea or a fly.
HOW TO MAKE A GOOD POLITICIAN.
Whene’er you’re in doubt, said a Sage I once knew,
‘Twixt two lines of conduct which course to pursue,
Ask a woman’s advice, and, whate’er she advise,
Do the very reverse and you’re sure to be wise.
Of the same use as guides the Brunswicker throng;
In their thoughts, words and deeds, so instinctively wrong,
That whatever they counsel, act, talk or indite,
Take the opposite course and you’re sure to be right.
So golden this rule, that, had nature denied you
The use of that finger-post, Reason, to guide you —
Were you even more doltish than any given man is,
More soft than Newcastle, more twaddling than Van is.
I’d stake my repute, on the following conditions,
To make you the soundest of sound politicians.
Place yourself near the skirts of some high-flying Tory —
Some Brunswicker parson, of port-drinking glory, —
Watch well how he dines, during any great Question —
What makes him feel gayly, what spoils his digestion —
And always feel sure that his joy o’er a stew
Portends a clear case of dyspepsia to you.
Read him backwards, like Hebrew — whatever he wishes
Or praises, note down as absurd or pernicious.
Like the folks of a weather-house, shifting about,
When he’s out be an In-when he’s in be an Out.
Keep him always reversed in your thoughts, night and day,
Like an Irish barometer turned the wrong way: —
If he’s up you may swear that foul weather is nigh;
If he’s down you may look for a bit of blue sky.
Never mind what debaters or journalists say,
Only ask what he thinks and then think t’other way.
Does he hate the Small-note Bill? then firmly rely
The Small-note Bill’s a blessing, tho’ you don’t know why.
Is Brougham his aversion? then Harry’s your man.
Does he quake at O’Connell? take doubly to Dan.
Is he all for the Turks? then at once take the whole
Russian Empire (Tsar, Cossacks and all) to your soul.
In short, whatsoever he talks, thinks or is,
Be your thoughts, words and essence the contrast of his.
Nay, as Siamese ladies — at least the polite ones, —
All paint their teeth black, ‘cause the devil has white ones-
If even by the chances of time or of tide
Your Tory for once should have sense on his side,
Even then stand aloof — for be sure that Old Nick
When a Tory talks sensibly, means you some trick.
Such my recipe is — and, in one single verse,
I shall now, in conclusion, its substance rehearse,
Be all that a Brunswicker is not nor could be,
/> And then — youll be all that an honest man should be.
EPISTLE OF CONDOLENCE.
FROM A SLAVE-LORD, TO A COTTON-LORD.
Alas! my dear friend, what a state of affairs!
How unjustly we both are despoiled of our rights!
Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs,
Nor must you any more work to death little whites.
Both forced to submit to that general controller
Of King, Lords and cotton mills, Public Opinion,
No more shall you beat with a big billy-roller.
Nor I with the cart-whip assert my dominion.
Whereas, were we suffered to do as we please
With our Blacks and our Whites, as of yore we were let,
We might range them alternate, like harpsichord keys,
And between us thump out a good piebald duet.
But this fun is all over; — farewell to the zest
Which Slavery now lends to each teacup we sip;
Which makes still the cruellest coffee the best,
And that sugar the sweetest which smacks of the whip.
Farewell too the Factory’s white pickaninnies —
Small, living machines which if flogged to their tasks
Mix so well with their namesakes, the “Billies” and “Jennies,”
That which have got souls in ’em nobody asks; —
Little Maids of the Mill, who themselves but ill-fed,
Are obliged, ‘mong their other benevolent cares,
To “keep feeding the scribblers,”1 — and better, ’tis said,
Than old Blackwood or Fraser have ever fed theirs.
All this is now o’er and so dismal my loss is,
So hard ’tis to part from the smack of the throng,
That I mean (from pure love for the old whipping process),
To take to whipt syllabub all my life long.
1 One of the operations in cotton mills usually performed by children.
THE GHOST OF MILTIADES.
ah quoties dubies Scriptis exarsit amator.
OVID.
The Ghost of Miltiades came at night,
And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite,
And he said, in a voice that thrilled the frame,
“If ever the sound of Marathon’s name
Hath fired thy blood or flusht thy brow,
“Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!”
The Benthamite yawning left his bed —
Away to the Stock Exchange he sped,
And he found the Scrip of Greece so high,
That it fired his blood, it flusht his eye,
And oh! ’twas a sight for the Ghost to see,
For never was Greek more Greek than he!
And still as the premium higher went,
His ecstasy rose — so much per cent.
(As we see in a glass that tells the weather
The heat and the silver rise together,)
And Liberty sung from the patriot’s lip,
While a voice from his pocket whispered “Scrip!”
The Ghost of Miltiades came again; —
He smiled, as the pale moon smiles thro’ rain,
For his soul was glad at that patriot strain;
(And poor, dear ghost — how little he knew
The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!)
“Blessings and thanks!” was all he said,
Then melting away like a night-dream fled!
The Benthamite hears — amazed that ghosts
Could be such fools — and away he posts,
A patriot still? Ah no, ah no —
Goddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low,
And warm and fond as thy lovers are,
Thou triest their passion, when under par,
The Benthamite’s ardor fast decays,
By turns he weeps and swears and prays.
And wishes the devil had Crescent and Cross,
Ere he had been forced to sell at a loss.
They quote him the Stock of various nations,
But, spite of his classic associations,
Lord! how he loathes the Greek quotations!
“Who’ll buy my Scrip? Who’ll buy my Scrip?”
Is now the theme of the patriot’s lip,
As he runs to tell how hard his lot is
To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis,
And says, “Oh Greece, for Liberty’s sake,
“Do buy my Scrip, and I vow to break
“Those dark, unholy bonds of thine —
“If you’ll only consent to buy up mine!”
The Ghost of Miltiades came once more; —
His brow like the night was lowering o’er,
And he said, with a look that flasht dismay,
“Of Liberty’s foes the worst are they,
“Who turn to a trade her cause divine,
“And gamble for gold on Freedom’s shrine!”
Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight,
Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite,
Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry —
And vanisht away to the Stygian ferry!
ALARMING INTELLIGENCE!
REVOLUTION IN THE DICTIONARY — ONE GALT AT THE HEAD OF IT.
God preserve us! — there’s nothing now safe from assault; —
Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the hammer;
And accounts have just reached us that one Mr. Galt
Has declared open war against English and Grammar!
He had long been suspected of some such design,
And, the better his wicked intents to arrive at,
Had lately ‘mong Colburn’s troops of the line
(The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private.
There schooled, with a rabble of words at command,
Scotch, English and slang in promiscuous alliance.
He at length against Syntax has taken his stand,
And sets all the Nine Parts of Speech at defiance.
Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford:
In the mean time the danger most imminent grows,
He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord,
And whom he’ll next murder the Lord only knows.
Wednesday evening.
Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene;
Tho’ the rebel, ’tis stated, to aid his defection,
Has seized a great Powder — no, Puff Magazine,
And the explosions are dreadful in every direction.
What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows,
As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration)
Of lyrical “ichor,”1 “gelatinous” prose,2
And a mixture called amber immortalization.3
Now, he raves of a bard he once happened to meet, Seated high “among rattlings” and churning a sonnet;4 Now, talks of a mystery, wrapt in a sheet, With a halo (by way of a nightcap) upon it!5
We shudder in tracing these terrible lines;
Something bad they must mean, tho’ we can’t make it out;
For whate’er may be guessed of Galt’s secret designs,
That they’re all Anti-English no Christian can doubt.
1 “That dark disease ichor which colored her effusions.” — GALT’S Life of Byron.
2 “The gelatinous character of their effusions.” Ibid.
3 “The poetical embalmment or rather amber immortalization.” — Ibid.
4 “Sitting amidst the shrouds and rattlings, churning an inarticulate melody.” — Ibid.
5 “He was a mystery in a winding sheet, crowned with a halo.” — Ibid.
RESOLUTIONS PASSED AT A LATE MEETING OF REVERENDS AND RIGHT REVERENDS.
Resolved — to stick to every particle
Of every Creed and every Article;
Reforming naught, or great or little,
We’ll stanchly stand by every tittle,
And scorn the swallow of
that soul
Which cannot boldly bolt the whole.1
Resolved that tho’ St. Athanasius
In damning souls is rather spacious —
Tho’ wide and far his curses fall,
Our Church “hath stomach for them all;”
And those who’re not content with such,
May e’en be damned ten times as much.
Resolved — such liberal souls are we —
Tho’ hating Nonconformity,
We yet believe the cash no worse is
That comes from Nonconformist purses.
Indifferent whence the money reaches
The pockets of our reverend breeches,
To us the Jumper’s jingling penny
Chinks with a tone as sweet as any;
And even our old friends Yea and Nay
May thro’ the nose for ever pray,
If also thro’ the nose they’ll pay.
Resolved that Hooper,2 Latimer,3
And Cranmer,4 all extremely err,
In taking such a low-bred view
Of what Lords Spiritual ought to do: —
All owing to the fact, poor men,
That Mother Church was modest then,
Nor knew what golden eggs her goose,
The Public, would in time produce.
One Pisgah peep at modern Durham
To far more lordly thoughts would stir ’em.
Resolved that when we Spiritual Lords
Whose income just enough affords
To keep our Spiritual Lordships cosey,
Are told by Antiquarians prosy
How ancient Bishops cut up theirs,
Giving the poor the largest shares —
Our answer is, in one short word,
We think it pious but absurd.
Those good men made the world their debtor,
But we, the Church reformed, know better;
And taking all that all can pay,
Balance the account the other way.
Resolved our thanks profoundly due are
To last month’s Quarterly Reviewer,
Who proves by arguments so clear
(One sees how much he holds per year)
That England’s Church, tho’ out of date,
Must still be left to lie in state,
As dead, as rotten and as grand as
The mummy of King Osymandyas,
All pickled snug — the brains drawn out —
With costly cerements swathed about, —
And “Touch me not,” those words terrific,
Scrawled o’er her in good hieroglyphic.
1 One of the questions propounded to the Puritans in 1573 was— “Whether the Book of Service was good and godly, every tittle grounded on the Holy Scripture?” On which an honest Dissenter remarks— “Surely they had a wonderful opinion of their Service Book that there was not a tittle amiss, in it.”
