The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I _would_,
By the law of last sessions I _might_ have done good.
I _might_ have withheld these political noodles
From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles;
I _might_ have told Ireland I pitied her lot,
Might have soothed her with hope--but you know I did not.

And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,
But find that while he has been laid on the shelf
We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself.
You smile at my hopes--but the Doctors and I
Are the last that can think the King _ever_ will die.[8]

A new era's arrived[9]--tho' you'd hardly believe it--
And all things of course must be new to receive it.
New villas, new fetes (which even Waithman attends)--
New saddles, new helmets, and--why not _new friends_?

* * * * *

I repeat it, "New Friends"--for I cannot describe
The delight I am in with this Perceval tribe.
Such capering!--Such vaporing!--Such rigor!--Such vigor!
North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure,
That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears,
And leave us no friends--but Old Nick and Algiers.

When I think of the glory they've beamed on my chains,
'Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains.
It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches,
But think how we find our Allies in new breeches!
We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted,
But then we've got Java, an island much wanted,
To put the last lingering few who remain,
Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain.
Then how Wellington fights! and how squabbles his brother!
_For_ Papists the one and _with_ Papists the other;
_One_ crushing Napoleon by taking a City,
While t'other lays waste a whole Catholic Committee.
Oh deeds of renown!--shall I boggle or flinch,
With such prospects before me? by Jove, not an inch.
No--let _England's_ affairs go to rack, if they will,
We'll look after the affairs of the _Continent_ still;
And with nothing at home but starvation and riot,
Find Lisbon in bread and keep Sicily quiet.

I am proud to declare I have no predilections,[10]
My heart is a sieve where some scattered affections
Are just danced about for a moment or two,
And the _finer_ they are, the more sure to run thro';
Neither feel I resentments, nor wish there should come ill
To mortal--except (now I think on't) Beau Brummel,
Who threatened last year, in a superfine passion,
To cut _me_ and bring the old King into fashion.
This is all I can lay to my conscience at present;
When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant,
So royally free from all troublesome feelings,
So little encumbered by faith in my dealings
(And that I'm consistent the world will allow,
What I was at Newmarket the same I am now).
When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking),
I hope, like the Vender of Best Patent Blacking,
"To meet with the generous and kind approbation
"Of a candid, enlightened, and liberal nation."

By the by, ere I close this magnificent Letter,
(No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better,)
'Twould please me if those, whom I've humbugged so long[11]
With the notion (good men!) that I knew right from wrong,
Would a few of them join me--mind, only a few--
To let _too_ much light in on me never would do;
But even Grey's brightness shan't make me afraid,
While I've Camden and Eldon to fly to for shade;
Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm,
While there's Westmoreland near him to weaken the charm.
As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it.
Sure joining with Hertford and Yarmouth will do it!
Between R-d-r and Wharton let Sheridan sit,
And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's wit:
And against all the pure public feeling that glows
Even in Whitbread himself we've a Host in George Rose!
So in short if they wish to have Places, they may,
And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey.[12]
Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose)
By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news;
And now, dearest Fred (tho' I've no predilection),
Believe me yours always with truest affection.

P.S. A copy of this is to Perceval going[13]
Good Lord, how St. Stephen's will ring with his crowing!

[1] Letter from his Royal Highness the Prince Regent to the Duke of York,
Feb. 13, 1812.

[2] "I think it hardly necessary to call your recollection to the recent
circumstances under which I assumed the authority delegated to me by
Parliament.--_Prince's Letter_.

[3] "My sense of duty to our Royal father solely decided that choice."--
_Ibid_.

[4] The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring,
turned out to be only an old sconce.

[5] "I waived any personal gratification, in order that his Majesty might
resume, on his restoration to health, every power and prerogative," etc.--
_Prince's Letter_.

[6] "And I have the satisfaction of knowing that such was the opinion of
persons for whose judgment," etc--_Ibid_.

[7] The letter-writer's favorite luncheon.

[8] I certainly am the last person in the kingdom to whom it can be
permitted to despair of our royal father's recovery."--_Prince's
Letter_.

[9] "A new era is now arrived, and I cannot but reflect with
satisfaction," etc.--_Ibid_.

[10] "I have no predilections to indulge,--no resentments to gratify."--
_Prince's Letter_.

[11] "I cannot conclude without expressing the gratification I should feel
if some of those persons with whom the early habits of my public life were
formed would strengthen my hands, and constitute a part of my
government"--
_Prince's Letter_.

[12] "You are authorized to communicate these sentiments to Lord Grey,
who, I have no doubt, will make them known to Lord Grenville."--
_Prince's Letter_.

[13] "I shall send a copy of this letter immediately to Mr. Perceval."-
_Prince's Letter_.

ANACREONTIC

TO A PLUMASSIER.

Fine and feathery artisan,
Best of Plumists (if you can
With your art so far presume)
Make for me a Prince's Plume--
Feathers soft and feathers rare,
Such as suits a Prince to wear.

First thou downiest of men,
Seek me out a fine Pea-hen;
Such a Hen, so tall and grand,
As by Juno's side might stand,
If there were no cocks at hand.
Seek her feathers, soft as down,
Fit to shine on Prince's crown;
If thou canst not find them, stupid!
Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.

Ranging these in order due,
Pluck me next an old Cuckoo;
Emblem of the happy fates
Of easy, kind, cornuted mates.
Pluck him well--be sure you do--
_Who_ wouldn't be an old Cuckoo,
Thus to have his plumage blest,
Beaming on a Royal crest?

Bravo, Plumist!--now what bird
Shall we find for Plume the third?
You must get a learned Owl,
Bleakest of black-letter fowl--
Bigot bird that hates the light,[1]
Foe to all that's fair and bright.
Seize his quills, (so formed to pen
Books[2] that shun the search of men;
Books that, far from every eye,
In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,)
Stick them in between the two,
Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo.
Now you have the triple feather,
Bind the kindred stems together
With a silken tie whose hue
Once was brilliant Buff and Blue;
Sullied now--alas, how much!
Only fit for Yarmouth's touch.

There--enough--thy task is done;
Present, worthy George's Son;
Now, beneath, in letters neat,
Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.

[1] Perceval.

[2] In allusion to "the Book" which created such a sensation at that
period.

EXTRACTS

FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.

_Wednesday_.

Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now--
Met the _old yellow chariot_[1] and made a low bow.
This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,
But got such a look--oh! 'twas black as the devil!
How unlucky!--_incog_. he was travelling about,
And I like a noodle, must go find him out.
_Mem_.--when next by the old yellow chariot I ride,
To remember there _is_ nothing princely inside.

_Thursday_.

At Levee to-day made another sad blunder--
What _can_ be come over me lately, I wonder?
The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life
He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife--
"Fine weather," says he--to which I, who _must_ prate,
Answered, "Yes, Sir, but _changeable_ rather, of late."
He took it, I fear, for he lookt somewhat gruff,
And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough,
That before all the courtiers I feared they'd come off,
And then, Lord, how Geramb[2] would triumphantly scoff!

_Mem_.--to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion
To nourish his whiskers--sure road to promotion![3]

_Saturday_.

Last night a Concert--vastly gay--
Given by Lady Castlereagh.
My Lord loves music, and we know
Has "two strings always to his bow."[4]
In choosing songs, the Regent named
"_Had I a heart for falsehood framed_."
While gentle Hertford begged and prayed
For "_Young I am and sore afraid_."

[1] The _incog_. vehicle of the Prince.

[2] Baron Geramb, the rival of his R. H. in whiskers.

[3] England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed
and rewarded. "I remember," says Tavernier, "to have seen one of the King
of Persia's porters, whose mustaches were so long that he could tie them
behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension."

[4] A rhetorical figure used by Lord Castlereagh, in one of his speeches.

EPIGRAM.

What news to-day?--"Oh! worse and worse--
"Mac[1] is the Prince's Privy Purse!"--
The Prince's _Purse_! no, no, you fool,
You mean the Prince's _Ridicule_.

[1] Colonel M'Mahon.

KING CRACK[1] AND HIS IDOLS.

WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW MINISTRY.

King Crack was the best of all possible Kings,
(At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,)
But Crack now and then would do heterodox things,
And at last took to worshipping _Images_ sadly.

Some broken-down Idols, that long had been placed
In his father's old _Cabinet_, pleased him so much,
That he knelt down and worshipt, tho'--such was his taste!--
They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch.

And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack!--
But his People disdaining to worship such things
Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your Godships must pack--
"You'll not do for _us_, tho' you _may_ do for _Kings_."

Then trampling these images under their feet,
They sent Crack a petition, beginning "Great Caesar!
"We're willing to worship; but only entreat
"That you'll find us some _decenter_ godheads than these are."

"I'll try," says King Crack--so they furnisht him models
Of better shaped Gods but he sent them all back;
Some were chiselled too fine, some had heads stead of noddles,
In short they were all _much_ too godlike for Crack.

So he took to his darling old Idols again,
And just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces,
In open defiance of Gods and of man,
Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.

[1] One of these antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem
so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which
Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was
only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston
says) was the last King of the Antediluvian Dynasty.

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

_Quest_. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh?
_Answ_. Because it is a slender thing of wood,
That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,
And coolly spout and spout and spout away,
In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his,
"Why refuse us the _Veto_, dear Catholic Neddy?"
"Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz,
"You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"

[1] Edward Byrne the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics.

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

AN ANACREONTIC.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers--
Or, (if sweeter that abode)
From the King's well-odored Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.
Hither come and gayly twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who rule us,
Those who rule and (some say) fool us--
Flora, sure, will love to please
England's Household Deities![1]

First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an orange lily--
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish Gifford can supply;--
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eldon's wig.

Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool,
To crown the head of Liverpool.
'Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs,
Which they suffered (what a pity!)
On the road to Paris City.

Next, our Castlereagh to crown,
Bring me from the County Down,
Withered Shamrocks which have been
Gilded o'er to hide the green--
(Such as Headfort brought away
From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)[2]--
Stitch the garland thro' and thro'
With shabby threads _of every hue_--
And as, Goddess!--_entre nous_--
His Lordship loves (tho' best of men)
A little _torture_ now and then,
Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens,
Crimp them with thy curling-irons.

That's enough--away, away--
Had I leisure, I could say
How the _oldest rose_ that grows
Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose--
How the Doctor's[3] brow should smile
Crowned with wreaths of camomile.
But time presses--to thy taste
I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!

[1] The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or
Household Gods.

[2] Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are
distributed by the Servants of Carleton House every Patrick's Day.

[3] The _sobriquet_ given to Lord Sidmouth.

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD YARMOUTH'S
FETE.

"I want the Court Guide," said my lady, "to look
"If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20."--
"We've lost the _Court Guide_, Ma'am, but here's _the Red Book_.
"Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour _Places_ in plenty!"

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PRINCE REGENT.[1]

Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains,
About what your old crony,
The Emperor Boney,
Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;

Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries:
Should there come famine,
Still plenty to cram in
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 don't 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 doesn't 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 _un_pack him again.

So what's to be done?--there's the Ministers, bless 'em!--
As he _made_ the puppets, why shouldn't 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 LAW[1] 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 shouldn't 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.