Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  And much regrets to say that he

  Can not at present their Patron be.

  In stating this, Lord Belzebub

  Assures on his honor the Brunswick Club,

  That ’tisn’t from any lukewarm lack

  Of zeal or fire he thus holds back —

  As even Lord Coal himself is not1

  For the Orange party more red-hot:

  But the truth is, still their Club affords

  A somewhat decenter show of Lords,

  And on its list of members gets

  A few less rubbishy Baronets,

  Lord Belzebub must beg to be

  Excused from keeping such company.

  Who the devil, he humbly begs to know,

  Are Lord Glandine, and Lord Dunlo?

  Or who, with a grain of sense, would go

  To sit and be bored by Lord Mayo?

  What living creature — except his nurse —

  For Lord Mountcashel cares a curse,

  Or think ’twould matter if Lord Muskerry

  Were ‘tother side of the Stygian ferry?

  Breathes there a man in Dublin town,

  Who’d give but half of half-a-crown

  To save from drowning my Lord Rathdowne,

  Or who wouldn’t also gladly hustle in

  Lords Roden, Bandon, Cole and Jocelyn?

  In short, tho’ from his tenderest years,

  Accustomed to all sorts of Peers,

  Lord Belzebub much questions whether

  He ever yet saw mixt together

  As ‘twere in one capacious tub.

  Such a mess of noble silly-bub

  As the twenty Peers of the Brunswick Club.

  ’Tis therefore impossible that Lord B.

  Could stoop to such society,

  Thinking, he owns (tho’ no great prig),

  For one in his station ‘twere infra dig.

  But he begs to propose, in the interim

  (Till they find some properer Peers for him),

  His Highness of Cumberland, as Sub

  To take his place at the Brunswick Club —

  Begging, meanwhile, himself to dub

  Their obedient servant,

  BELZEBUB.

  It luckily happens, the Royal Duke

  Resembles so much, in air and look,

  The head of the Belzebub family,

  That few can any difference see;

  Which makes him of course the better suit

  To serve as Lord B.’s substitute.

  1 Usually written Cole.

  PROPOSALS FOR A GYNAECOCRACY.

  ADDRESSED TO A LATE RADICAL MEETING.

  — “quas ipsa decus sibi dia Camilla delegit pacisque bonas bellique ministras.” VERGIL.

  As Whig Reform has had its range,

  And none of us are yet content,

  Suppose, my friends, by way of change,

  We try a Female Parliament;

  And since of late with he M.P.’s

  We’ve fared so badly, take to she’s —

  Petticoat patriots, flounced John Russells,

  Burdetts in blonde and Broughams in bustles.

  The plan is startling, I confess —

  But ’tis but an affair of dress;

  Nor see I much there is to choose

  ‘Twixt Ladies (so they’re thorough-bred ones)

  In ribands of all sorts of hues,

  Or Lords in only blue or red ones.

  At least the fiddlers will be winners,

  Whatever other trade advances

  As then, instead of Cabinet dinners

  We’ll have, at Almack’s, Cabinet dances;

  Nor let this world’s important questions

  Depend on Ministers’ digestions.

  If Ude’s receipts have done things ill,

  To Weippert’s band they may go better;

  There’s Lady * *, in one quadrille,

  Would settle Europe, if you’d let her:

  And who the deuce or asks or cares

  When Whigs or Tories have undone ’em,

  Whether they’ve danced thro’ State affairs,

  Or simply, dully, dined upon ’em?

  Hurrah then for the Petticoats!

  To them we pledge our free-born votes;

  We’ll have all she, and only she —

  Pert blues shall act as “best debaters,”

  Old dowagers our Bishops be,

  And termagants our agitators.

  If Vestris to oblige the nation

  Her own Olympus will abandon

  And help to prop the Administration,

  It can’t have better legs to stand on.

  The famed Macaulay (Miss) shall show

  Each evening, forth in learned oration;

  Shall move (midst general cries of “Oh!”)

  For full returns of population:

  And finally to crown the whole,

  The Princess Olive, Royal soul,1

  Shall from her bower in Banco Regis,

  Descend to bless her faithful lieges,

  And mid our Union’s loyal chorus

  Reign jollily for ever o’er us.

  1 A personage so styled herself who attained considerable notoriety at that period.

  TO THE EDITOR OF THE * * *.

  Sir,

  Having heard some rumors respecting the strange and awful visitation under which Lord Henley has for some time past been suffering, in consequence of his declared hostility to “anthems, solos, duets,”1 etc., I took the liberty of making inquiries at his Lordship’s house this morning and lose no time in transmitting to you such particulars as I could collect. It is said that the screams of his Lordship, under the operation of this nightly concert, (which is no doubt some trick of the Radicals), may be heard all over the neighborhood. The female who personates St. Cecilia is supposed to be the same that last year appeared in the character of Isis at the Rotunda. How the cherubs are managed, I have not yet ascertained.

  Yours, etc.

  P. P.

  1 In a work, on Church Reform, published by his Lordship in 1832.

  LORD HENLEY AND ST. CECILIA

  — in Metii decenaat Judicis aures.

  HORAT.

  As snug in his bed Lord Henley lay,

  Revolving much his own renown,

  And hoping to add thereto a ray

  By putting duets and anthems down,

  Sudden a strain of choral sounds

  Mellifluous o’er his senses stole;

  Whereat the Reformer muttered “Zounds!”

  For he loathed sweet music with all his soul.

  Then starting up he saw a sight

  That well might shock so learned a snorer —

  Saint Cecilia robed in light

  With a portable organ slung before her.

  And round were Cherubs on rainbow wings,

  Who, his Lordship feared, might tire of flitting,

  So begged they’d sit — but ah! poor things,

  They’d, none of them, got the means of sitting.

  “Having heard,” said the Saint, “you’re fond of hymns,

  “And indeed that musical snore betrayed you,

  “Myself and my choir of cherubims

  “Are come for a while to serenade you.”

  In vain did the horrified Henley say

  “’Twas all a mistake — she was misdirected;”

  And point to a concert over the way

  Where fiddlers and angels were expected.

  In vain — the Saint could see in his looks

  (She civilly said) much tuneful lore;

  So at once all opened their music-books,

  And herself and her Cherubs set off at score.

  All night duets, terzets, quartets,

  Nay, long quintets most dire to hear;

  Ay, and old motets and canzonets

  And glees in sets kept boring his ear.

  He tried to sleep — but it wouldn’t do;

  So loud they squalled
, he must attend to ’em.

  Tho’ Cherubs’ songs to his cost he knew

  Were like themselves and had no end to ’em.

  Oh judgment dire on judges bold,

  Who meddle with music’s sacred strains!

  Judge Midas tried the same of old

  And was punisht like Henley for his pains.

  But worse on the modern judge, alas!

  Is the sentence launched from Apollo’s throne;

  For Midas was given the ears of an ass,

  While Henley is doomed to keep his own!

  ADVERTISEMENT.1

  1830.

  Missing or lost, last Sunday night,

  A Waterloo coin whereon was traced

  The inscription, “Courage!” in letters bright,

  Tho’ a little by rust of years defaced.

  The metal thereof is rough and hard,

  And (’tis thought of late) mixt up with brass;

  But it bears the stamp of Fame’s award,

  And thro’ all Posterity’s hands will pass.

  How it was lost God only knows,

  But certain City thieves, they say,

  Broke in on the owner’s evening doze,

  And filched this “gift of gods” away!

  One ne’er could, of course, the Cits suspect,

  If we hadn’t that evening chanced to see,

  At the robbed man’s door a Mare elect

  With an ass to keep her company.

  Whosoe’er of this lost treasure knows,

  Is begged to state all facts about it,

  As the owner can’t well face his foes,

  Nor even his friends just now without it.

  And if Sir Clod will bring it back,

  Like a trusty Baronet, wise and able,

  He shall have a ride on the whitest hack2

  That’s left in old King George’s stable.

  1 Written at that memorable crisis when a distinguished duke, then Prime Minister, acting under the inspirations of Sir Claudius Hunter, and other City worthies, advised his Majesty to give up his announced intention of dining with the Lord Mayor.

  2 Among other remarkable attributes by which Sir Claudius distinguished himself, the dazzling whiteness of his favorite steed vas not the least conspicuous.

  MISSING.

  Carlton Terrace, 1832.

  Whereas, Lord —— de ——

  Left his home last Saturday,

  And, tho’ inquired for round and round

  Thro’ certain purlieus, can’t be found;

  And whereas, none can solve our queries

  As to where this virtuous Peer is,

  Notice is hereby given that all

  May forthwith to inquiring fall,

  As, once the thing’s well set about,

  No doubt but we shall hunt him out.

  His Lordship’s mind, of late, they say,

  Hath been in an uneasy way,

  Himself and colleagues not being let

  To climb into the Cabinet,

  To settle England’s state affairs,

  Hath much, it seems, unsettled theirs;

  And chief to this stray Plenipo

  Hath been a most distressing blow.

  Already,-certain to receive a

  Well-paid mission to the Neva,

  And be the bearer of kind words

  To tyrant Nick from Tory Lords,-

  To fit himself for free discussion,

  His Lordship had been learning Russian;

  And all so natural to him were

  The accents of the Northern bear,

  That while his tones were in your ear, you

  Might swear you were in sweet Siberia.

  And still, poor Peer, to old and young,

  He goes on raving in that tongue;

  Tells you how much you would enjoy a

  Trip to Dalnodubrovrkoya;1

  Talks of such places by the score on

  As Oulisflirmchinagoboron,2

  And swears (for he at nothing sticks)

  That Russia swarms with Raskolniks,

  Tho’ one such Nick, God knows, must be

  A more than ample quantity.

  Such are the marks by which to know

  This strayed or stolen Plenipo;

  And whosoever brings or sends

  The unhappy statesman to his friends

  On Carlton Terrace, shall have thanks,

  And — any paper but the Bank’s.

  P.S. — Some think the disappearance

  Of this our diplomatic Peer hence

  Is for the purpose of reviewing,

  In person, what dear Mig is doing,

  So as to ‘scape all tell-tale letters

  ‘Bout Beresford, and such abetters, —

  The only “wretches” for whose aid3

  Letters seem not to have been made.

  1 In the Government of Perm.

  2 Territory belonging to the mines of Kolivano-Kosskressense.

  3 “Heaven first taught letters for some wretch’s aid.” POPE.

  THE DANCE OF BISHOPS; OR, THE EPISCOPAL QUADRILLE.1

  A DREAM.

  1833.

  “Solemn dances were, on great festivals and celebrations, admitted among the primitive Christians, in which even the Bishops and dignified Clergy were performers. Scaliger says, that the first Bishops were called praesules2 for other reason than that they led off these dances.”— “Cyclopaedia,” art. Dances.

  I’ve had such a dream — a frightful dream —

  Tho’ funny mayhap to wags ‘twill seem,

  By all who regard the Church, like us,

  ‘Twill be thought exceedingly ominous!

  As reading in bed I lay last night —

  Which (being insured) is my delight —

  I happened to doze off just as I got to

  The singular fact which forms my motto.

  Only think, thought I, as I dozed away,

  Of a party of Churchmen dancing the hay!

  Clerks, curates and rectors capering all

  With a neat-legged Bishop to open the ball!

  Scarce had my eyelids time to close,

  When the scene I had fancied before me rose —

  An Episcopal Hop on a scale so grand

  As my dazzled eyes could hardly stand.

  For Britain and Erin clubbed their Sees

  To make it a Dance of Dignities,

  And I saw — oh brightest of Church events!

  A quadrille of the two Establishments,

  Bishop to Bishop vis-à-vis,

  Footing away prodigiously.

  There was Bristol capering up to Derry,

  And Cork with London making merry;

  While huge Llandaff, with a See, so so,

  Was to dear old Dublin pointing his toe.

  There was Chester, hatched by woman’s smile,

  Performing a chaine des Dames in style;

  While he who, whene’er the Lords’ House dozes,

  Can waken them up by citing Moses,3

  The portly Tuam, was all in a hurry

  To set, en avant, to Canterbury.

  Meantime, while pamphlets stuft his pockets,

  (All out of date like spent skyrockets,)

  Our Exeter stood forth to caper,

  As high on the floor as he doth on paper —

  like a dapper Dancing Dervise,

  Who pirouettes his whole church-service —

  Performing, midst those reverend souls,

  Such entrechats, such cabrioles,

  Such balonnés, such — rigmaroles,

  Now high, now low, now this, that,

  That none could guess what the devil he’d be at;

  Tho’, watching his various steps, some thought

  That a step in the Church was all he sought.

  But alas, alas! while thus so gay.

  These reverend dancers friskt away,

  Nor Paul himself (not the saint, but he

  Of the Opera-house) cou
ld brisker be,

  There gathered a gloom around their glee —

  A shadow which came and went so fast,

  That ere one could say “’Tis there,” ’twas past —

  And, lo! when the scene again was cleared,

  Ten of the dancers had disappeared!

  Ten able-bodied quadrillers swept

  From the hallowed floor where late they stept,

  While twelve was all that footed it still,

  On the Irish side of that grand Quadrille!

  Nor this the worst: — still danced they on,

  But the pomp was saddened, the smile was gone;

  And again from time to time the same

  Ill-omened darkness round them came —

  While still as the light broke out anew,

  Their ranks lookt less by a dozen or two;

  Till ah! at last there were only found

  Just Bishops enough for a four-hands-round;

  And when I awoke, impatient getting,

  I left the last holy pair poussetting!

  N.B. — As ladies in years, it seems,

  Have the happiest knack at solving dreams,

  I shall leave to my ancient feminine friends

  Of the Standard to say what this portends.

  1 Written on the passing of the memorable Bill, in the year 1833, for the abolition of ten Irish Bishoprics.

  2 Literally, First Dancers.

  3 “And what does Moses say?” — One of the ejaculations with which this eminent prelate enlivened his famous speech on the Catholic question.

  DICK * * * *

  A CHARACTER.

  Of various scraps and fragments built,

  Borrowed alike from fools and wits,

  Dick’s mind was like a patchwork quilt,

  Made up of new, old, motley bits —

  Where, if the Co. called in their shares,

  If petticoats their quota got

  And gowns were all refunded theirs,

  The quilt would look but shy, God wot.

  And thus he still, new plagiaries seeking,

  Reversed ventriloquism’s trick,

  For, ‘stead of Dick thro’ others speaking,

  ’Twas others we heard speak thro’ Dick.

  A Tory now, all bounds exceeding,

  Now best of Whigs, now worst of rats;

  One day with Malthus, foe to breeding,

  The next with Sadler, all for brats.

  Poor Dick! — and how else could it be?

  With notions all at random caught,

  A sort of mental fricassee,

  Made up of legs and wings of thought —

  The leavings of the last Debate, or