The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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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.
Register_.

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,
We may thus make them useful to England at last.
Castlereagh in our sieges might save some disgraces,
Being used to the _taking_ and _keeping_ of _places_;
And Volunteer Canning, still ready for joining,
Might show off his talent for sly _under-mining_.
Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride,
Old Headfort at _horn-works_ again might be tried,
And as Chief Justice make a _bold charge_ at his side:
While Vansittart could victual the troops _upon tick_,
And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.

Nay, I do not see why the great Regent himself
Should in times such as these stay at home on the shelf:
Tho' thro' narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass,
Yet who could resist, if he bore down _en masse_?
And tho' oft of an evening perhaps he might prove,
Like our Spanish confederates, "unable to move,"[1]
Yet there's _one_ thing in war of advantage unbounded,
Which is, that he could not with ease be _surrounded_.

In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment:
At present no more, but--good luck to the shipment!

[1] The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John
Murray's memorable despatch.

HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III.

A FRAGMENT.

_odi profanum, valgus et arceo;
favete linguis: carmina non prius
audila Musarum sacerdos
virginibus puerisque canto.
regum timendorum in proprios greges,
reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis_.

1813.

I hate thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf;
To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses,
Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself,
And, like Godwin, write books for young masters and misses.
Oh! it _is_ not high rank that can make the heart merry,
Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap:
Tho' the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry,
Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.

HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I.

A FRAGMENT.

_persico odi, puer, adparatus;
displicent nexae philyra coronae;_
mitte sectari, _Rosa_ quo locorum
sera moretur.

TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON.
GEORGE ROBE.

Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nicknackeries.
Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries--
Six by the Horse-Guards!--old Georgy is late--
But come--lay the table-cloth--zounds! do not wait,
Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,
At which of his places Old Rose is delaying!

* * * * *

IMPROMPTU.

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF
BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

1810.

Between Adam and me the great difference is,
Tho' a paradise each has been forced to resign,
That he never wore breeches, till turned out of his,
While for want of my breeches, I'm banisht from mine.

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

1813.

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled,
While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand,
That the emblem they graved on his seal, was a child
With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield
Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do;
For while _they_'re in the Council and _you_ in the Field.
We've the _babies_ in _them_, and the _thunder_ in _you_!

The following trifles, having enjoyed in their circulation through the
newspapers all the celebrity and length of life to which they were
entitled, would have been suffered to pass quietly into oblivion without
pretending to any further distinction, had they not already been
published, in a collective form, both in London and Paris, and, in each
case, been mixed up with a number of other productions, to which, whatever
may be their merit, the author of the following pages has no claim. A
natural desire to separate his own property, worthless as it is, from that
of others, is, he begs to say, the chief motive of the publication of this
volume.

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

_effare causam nominis,
utrumne mores hoc tui
nomen dedere, an nomen hoc
secuta morum regula_. AUSONIUS.

1816.

Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson _Low_,
(By name, and ah! by nature so)
As thou art fond of persecutions,
Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated,
How Captain Gulliver was treated,
When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down--these little men did--
And having valiantly ascended
Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance,
They did so strut!--upon my soul,
It must have been extremely droll
To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins
Amused themselves with sticking pins
And needles in the great man's breeches:
And how some _very_ little things,
That past for Lords, on scaffoldings
Got up and worried him with speeches,

Alas, alas! that it should happen
To mighty men to be caught napping!--
Tho' different too these persecutions;
For Gulliver, _there_, took the nap,
While, _here_, the _Nap_, oh sad mishap,
Is taken by the Lilliputians!

AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN BANK AND GOVERNMENT.

1826.

BANK.

Is all then forgotten? those amorous pranks
You and I in our youth, my dear Government, played;
When you called me the fondest, the truest of Banks,
And enjoyed the endearing _advances_ I made!

When left to ourselves, unmolested and free,
To do all that a dashing young couple should do,
A law against _paying_ was laid upon me,
But none against _owing_, dear helpmate, on you.

And is it then vanisht?--that "hour (as Othello
So happily calls it) of Love and _Direction_?"
And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow,
Grow good in our old age and cut the connection?

GOVERNMENT.

Even so, my beloved Mrs. Bank, it must be;
This paying in cash plays the devil with wooing:
We've both had our swing, but I plainly foresee
There must soon be a stop to our _bill_ing and cooing.

Propagation in reason--a small child or two--
Even Reverend Malthus himself is a friend to;
The issue of some folks is moderate and few--
But _ours_, my dear corporate Bank, there's no end to!

So--hard tho' it be on a pair, who've already
Disposed of so many pounds, shillings and pence;
And in spite of that pink of prosperity, Freddy,[1]
So lavish of cash and so sparing of sense--

The day is at hand, my Papyria[2] Venus,
When--high as we once used to carry our capers--
Those soft _billet-doux_ we're now passing between us,
Will serve but to keep Mrs. Coutts in curl-papers:

And when--if we _still_ must continue our love,
(After all that has past)--our amour, it is clear,
Like that which Miss Danaee managed with Jove,
Must all be transacted in _bullion_, my dear!

_February, 1826_.

[1] Honorable Fredrick Robinson.

[2] So called, to distinguish her from the Aure or _Golden_ Venus.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE.

_"o ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavet acres
agna lupos, capreaeque leones."_--HOR.

Said a Sovereign to a Note,
In the pocket of his coat,
Where they met in a neat purse of leather,
"How happens it, I prithee,
"That, tho' I'm wedded _with_ thee,
"Fair Pound, we can never live together?

"Like your sex, fond of _change_
"With Silver you can range,
"And of lots of young sixpences be mother;
"While with _me_--upon my word,
"Not my Lady and my Lord
"Of Westmouth see so little of each other!"

The indignant Note replied
(Lying crumpled by his side),
"Shame, shame, it is _yourself_ that roam, Sir--
"One cannot look askance,
"But, whip! you're off to France,
"Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir.

"Your scampering began
"From the moment Parson Van,
"Poor man, made us _one_ in Love's fetter;
"'For better or for worse'
"Is the usual marriage curse,
"But ours is all 'worse' and no 'better.'

"In vain are laws past,
"There's nothing holds you fast,
"Tho' you know, sweet Sovereign, I adore you--
"At the smallest hint in life,
"You forsake your lawful wife,
"As _other_ Sovereigns did before you.

"I flirt with Silver, true--
"But what can ladies do,
"When disowned by their natural protectors?
"And as to falsehood, stuff!
"I shall soon be _false_ enough,
"When I get among those wicked Bank Directors."

The Sovereign, smiling on her,
Now swore upon his honor,
To be henceforth domestic and loyal;
But, within an hour or two,
Why--I sold him to a Jew,
And he's now at No. 10, Palais Royal.

AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING.

_"quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?"_
VERGIL.

1826.

How _can_ you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all
The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn,[1]
When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental,
'Tis hardly worth while being very high born?

Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life,
On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor in?
A question-like asking one, "How is your wife?"--
At once so confounded _domestic_ and _foreign_.

As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast;
But Peers and such animals, fed up for show,
(Like the well-physickt elephant, lately deceased,)
Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

You might see, my dear Baron, how bored and distrest
Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale,
When the force of the agony wrung even a jest
From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord Lauderdale![2]

Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave
A humor endowed with effects so provoking,
That when the whole House looks unusually grave
You may always conclude that Lord Lauderdale's joking!

And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth--
Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms
Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth,
'Twixt those who have _heir_looms, and those who've but looms!

"To talk _now_ of starving!"--as great Athol said[3]--
(And the nobles all cheered and the bishops all wondered,)
"When some years ago he and others had fed
"Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!"

It follows from hence--and the Duke's very words
Should be publisht wherever poor rogues of this craft are--
That weavers, _once_ rescued from starving by Lords,
Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after.

When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians
Made "Bread and the Circus" a cure for each _row_;
But not so the plan of _our_ noble physicians,
"No Bread and the Treadmill,"'s the regimen now.

So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose,
As I shall my poetry--_neither_ convinces;
And all we have spoken and written but shows,
When you tread on a nobleman's _corn_,[4]
how he winces.

[1] See the proceedings of the Lords, Wednesday, March 1, 1826,
when Lord King was severely reproved by several of the noble Peers, for
making so many speeches against the Corn Laws.

[2] This noble Earl said, that "when he heard the petition came
from ladies' boot and shoe-makers, he thought it must be against the
'corns' which they inflicted on the fair sex."

[3] The Duke of Athol said, that "at a former period, when these
weavers were in great distress, the landed interest of Perth had supported
1500 of them, it was a poor return for these very men now to petition
against the persons who had fed them."

[4] An improvement, we flatter ourselves, on Lord L.'s joke.

THE SINKING FUND CRIED.

"Now what, we ask, is become of this Sinking Fund--these eight
millions of surplus above expenditure, which were to reduce the
interest of the national debt by the amount of four hundred thousand
pounds annually? Where, indeed, is the Sinking Fund itself?"
--_The Times_.

Take your bell, take your bell,
Good Crier, and tell
To the Bulls and the Bears, till their ears are stunned,
That, lost or stolen,
Or fallen thro' a hole in
The Treasury floor, is the Sinking Fund!

O yes! O yes!
Can anybody guess
What the deuce has become of this Treasury wonder?
It has Pitt's name on't,
All brass, in the front,
And Robinson's scrawled with a goose-quill under.

Folks well knew what
Would soon be its lot,
When Frederick and Jenky set hob-nobbing,[1]
And said to each other,
"Suppose, dear brother,
"We make this funny old Fund worth robbing."

We are come, alas!
To a very pretty pass--
Eight Hundred Millions of score, to pay,

With but Five in the till,
To discharge the bill,
And even that Five, too, whipt away!

Stop thief! stop thief!--
From the Sub to the Chief,
These _Gemmen_ of Finance are plundering cattle--
Call the watch--call Brougham,
Tell Joseph Hume,
That best of Charleys, to spring his rattle.

Whoever will bring
This aforesaid thing
To the well-known House of Robinson and Jenkin,
Shall be paid, with thanks,
In the notes of banks,
Whose Funds have all learned "the Art of Sinking."

O yes! O yes!
Can anybody guess
What the devil has become of this Treasury wonder?
It has Pitt's name on't,
All brass, in the front,
And Robinson's, scrawled with a goose-quill under.

[1] In 1824, when the Sinking Fund was raised by the imposition of new
taxes to the sum of five millions.

ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES.

BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE.

"legiferoe Cereri Phoeboque."--VERGIL.

Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know,
(Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,)
Adorned with somniferous poppies to show
Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.

Behold in his best shooting-jacket before thee
An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches.
Great Queen of Mark-lane (if the thing doesn't bore thee),
Thou'lt read o'er the last of his--_never_-last speeches.

Ah! Ceres, thou knowest not the slander and scorn
Now heapt upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted;
Improving on Hunt,[1] 'tis no longer the Corn,
'Tis the _growers_ of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.

In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us--
Reviewers, economists--fellows no doubt
That you, my dear Ceres and Venus and Bacchus
And Gods of high fashion, know little about.

There's Bentham, whose English is all his own making,--
Who thinks just as little of settling a nation
As he would of smoking his pipe or of taking
(What he himself calls) his "postprandial vibration."[2]

There are two Mr. Mills to whom those that love reading
Thro' all that's unreadable call very clever;--
And whereas Mill Senior makes war on _good_ breeding,
Mill Junior makes war on all _breeding_ whatever!

In short, my dear Goddess, old England's divided
Between _ultra_ blockheads and superfine sages;--
With _which_ of these classes we landlords have sided
Thou'lt find in my Speech if thou'lt read a few pages.

For therein I've proved to my own satisfaction
And that of all 'Squires I've the honor of meeting
That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouthed detraction
To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.

On the contrary, such the "_chaste_ notions"[3] of food
That dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart,
They would scorn any law, be it ever so good,
That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art!

And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day,
Whom the Land and the Silk[4] shall in fond combination
(Like _Sulky_ and _Silky_, that pair in the play,)[5]
Cry out with one voice for High Rents and Starvation!

Long life to the Minister!--no matter who,
Or how dull he may be, if with dignified spirit he
Keeps the ports shut--and the people's mouths too--
We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity,

And, as for myself, who've, like Hannibal, sworn
To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us,
Had England but _One_ to stand by thee, Dear Corn,
That last, honest Uni-Corn[6] would be Sir Thomas!

[1] A sort of "breakfast-power," composed of roasted corn, was
about this time introduced by Mr. Hunt, as a substitute for coffee.

[2] The venerable Jeremy's phrase for his after-dinner walk.

[3] A phrase in one of Sir Thomas's last speeches.

[4] Great efforts were, at that time, making for the exclusion of
foreign silk.

[5] "Road to Ruin."

[6] This is meant not so much for a pun, as in allusion to the natural
history of the Unicorn, which is supposed to be, something between the
_Bos_ and the _Asinus_, and, as Rees's Cyclopaedia assures us,
has a particular liking for everything "chaste."

A HYMN OF WELCOME AFTER THE RECESS.

_"animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo."_

And now-cross-buns and pancakes o'er--
Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more!
Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain!
The short eclipse of April-Day
Having (God grant it!) past away,
Collective Wisdom, shine again!

Come, Ayes and Noes, thro' thick and thin,--
With Paddy Holmes for whipper-in,--
Whate'er the job, prepared to back it;
Come, voters of Supplies--bestowers
Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers,
At eighty mortal pounds the jacket![1]

Come--free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares--
Ye Senators of many Shares,
Whose dreams of premium knew no boundary;
So fond of aught like _Company_,
That you would even have taken _tea_
(Had you been askt) with Mr. Goundry.[2]

Come, matchless country-gentlemen;
Come, wise Sir Thomas--wisest then
When creeds and corn-lords are debated;
Come, rival even the Harlot Red,
And show how wholly into _bread_
A 'Squire is _transubstantiated_,

Come, Lauderdale, and tell the world,
That--surely as thy scratch is curled
As never scratch was curled before--
Cheap eating does more harm than good,
And working-people spoiled by food,
The less they eat, will work the more.

Come, Goulburn, with thy glib defence
(Which thou'dst have made for Peter's Pence)
Of Church-rates, worthy of a halter;
Two pipes of port (_old_ port, 'twas said
By honest _New_port)[3] bought and paid
By Papists for the Orange Altar![4]

Come, Horton, with thy plan so merry
For peopling Canada from Kerry--
Not so much rendering Ireland quiet,
As grafting on the dull Canadians
That liveliest of earth's contagions,
The _bull_-pock of Hibernian riot!

Come all, in short, ye wondrous men
Of wit and wisdom, come again;
Tho' short your absence, all deplore it--
Oh, come and show, whate'er men say,
That you can _after_ April-Day,
Be just as--sapient as _before_ it.

[1] An item of expense which Mr. Hume in vain endeavored tog et rid of:--
trumpeters, it appears like the men of All-Souls, must be "_bene
vestiti_."

[2] The gentleman, lately before the public, who kept his _Joint_-Stock
Tea Company all to himself, singing "Te _solo adoro_."

[3] Sir John Newport.

[4] This charge of two pipes of port for the sacramental wine is a
precious specimen of the sort of rates levied upon their Catholic fellow-
parishioners by the Irish Protestants. "The thirst that from the soul doth
rise Doth ask a drink divine."

MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK.

MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826.

The Budget--quite charming and witty--no hearing,
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;--
Great comfort to find, tho' the speech isn't _cheering_,
That all its gay auditors _were_ every minute.

What, _still_ more prosperity!--mercy upon us,
"This boy'll be the death of me"--oft as, already,
Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,
For _Ruin made easy_ there's no one like Freddy.

TUESDAY.

Much grave apprehension exprest by the Peers,
Lest--calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts--
The large stock of gold we're to have in three years,
Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets![1]

WEDNESDAY.

Little doing--for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art
To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table--
When _the Members_ all meet, to make much of that part,
With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.

It appeared, tho', to-night, that--as church-wardens yearly,
Eat up a small baby--those cormorant sinners.
The Bankrupt Commissioners, _bolt_ very nearly
A moderate-sized bankrupt, _tout chaud_, for their dinners![2]

_Nota bene_--a rumor to-day, in the city,
"Mr. Robinson just has resigned"--what a pity!

The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing,
When they heard of the fate of poor Cock _Robin_:
While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty,
A murmuring _Stock_-dove breathed her ditty:--

Alas, poor _Robin_, he crowed as long
And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;
But his _note_ was _small_ and the _gold_-finch's song
Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
Who'll make his shroud?

"I," said the Bank, "tho' he played me a prank,
"While I have a rag, poor _Rob_ shall be rolled in't,
"With many a pound I'll paper him round,
"Like a plump rouleau--_without_ the gold in it."

[1] "Another objection to a metallic currency was, that it produced a
greater number of highway robberies."--_Debate in the Lords_.

[2] Mr. Abercromby's statement of the enormous tavern bills of the
Commissioners of Bankrupts.

ALL IN THE FAMILY WAY.

A NEW PASTORAL BALLAD.

(SUNG IN THE CHARACTER OF BRITANNIA.)