The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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"The Public Debt is due from ourselves to ourselves, and resolves
itself into a Family Account."--_Sir Robert Peel's Letter_.

Tune--_My banks are all furnisht with bees_.

My banks are all furnisht with rags,
So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em;
I've torn up my old money-bags,
Having little or nought to put in 'em.
My tradesmen are smashing by dozens,
But this is all nothing, they say;
For bankrupts since Adam are cousins,--
So, it's all in the family way.

My Debt not a penny takes from me.
As sages the matter explain;--
Bob owes it to Tom, and then Tommy
Just owes it to Bob back again.
Since all have thus taken to _owing_,
There's nobody left that can _pay_;
And this is the way to keep going,--
All quite in the family way.

My senators vote away millions,
To put in Prosperity's budget;
And tho' it were billions or trillions,
The generous rogues wouldn't grudge it.
'Tis all but a family _hop_,
'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay;
Hands round!--why the deuce should we stop?
'Tis all in the family way.

My laborers used to eat mutton,
As any great man of the State does;
And now the poor devils are put on
Small rations of tea and potatoes.
But cheer up, John, Sawney, and Paddy,
The King is your father, they say;
So even if you starve for your Daddy,
'Tis all in the family way.

My rich manufacturers tumble,
My poor ones have nothing to chew;
And even if themselves do not grumble
Their stomachs undoubtedly do.
But coolly to fast _en famille_,
Is as good for the soul as to pray;
And famine itself is genteel,
When one starves in a family way.

I have found out a secret for Freddy,
A secret for next Budget day;
Tho' perhaps he may know it already,
As he too's a sage in his way.
When next for the Treasury scene he
Announces "the Devil to pay,"
Let him write on the bills, "_nota bene_,
"'Tis all in the family way."

BALLAD FOR THE CAMBRIDGE ELECTION.

"I authorized my Committee to take the step which they did, of
proposing a fair comparison of strength, upon the understanding that
_whichever of the two should prove to be the weakest_, should
give way to the other."
--_Extract from Mr. W. J. Bankes's Letter to Mr. Goulbourn_.

Bankes is weak, and Goulbourn too,
No one e'er the fact denied;--
Which is "weakest" of the two,
Cambridge can alone decide.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Goulbourn of the Pope afraid is,
Bankes, as much afraid as he;
Never yet did two old ladies
On this point so well agree.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest. Cambridge, say.

Each a different mode pursues,
Each the same conclusion reaches;
Bankes is foolish in Reviews,
Goulbourn foolish in his speeches.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Each a different foe doth damn,
When his own affairs have gone ill;
Bankes he damneth Buckingham,
Goulbourn damneth Dan O'Connell.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.
Once we know a horse's neigh
Fixt the election to a throne,
So whichever first shall _bray_
Choose him, Cambridge, for thy own.
Choose him, choose him by his bray,
Thus elect him, Cambridge, pray.

_June_, 1826.

MR. ROGER DODSWORTH.

1826.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.

Sir--Having just heard of the wonderful resurrection of Mr. Roger
Dodsworth from under an _avalanche_, where he had remained, _bien
frappe_, it seems, for the last 166 years, I hasten to impart to you a
few reflections on the subject.--Yours, etc.

_Laudator Temporis Acti_.

What a lucky turn-up!--just as Eldon's withdrawing,
To find thus a gentleman, frozen in the year
Sixteen hundred and sixty, who only wants thawing
To serve for _our_ times quite as well as the Peer;--

To bring thus to light, not the Wisdom alone
Of our Ancestors, such as 'tis found on our shelves,
But in perfect condition, full-wigged and full-grown,
To shovel up one of those wise bucks themselves!

Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth and send him safe home--
Let him learn nothing useful or new on the way;
With his wisdom kept snug from the light let him come,
And our Tories will hail him with "Hear!" and "Hurrah!"

What a God-send to _them_!--a good, obsolete man,
Who has never of Locke or Voltaire been a reader;--
Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth as fast as you can,
And the Lonsdales and Hertfords shall choose him for leader.

Yes, Sleeper of Ages, thou _shalt_ be their chosen;
And deeply with thee will they sorrow, good men,
To think that all Europe has, since thou wert frozen,
So altered thou hardly wilt know it again.

And Eldon will weep o'er each sad innovation
Such oceans of tears, thou wilt fancy that he
Has been also laid up in a long congelation,
And is only now thawing, dear Roger, like thee.

COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH.

FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS
SATANIC MAJESTY.

St. James's Street, July 1, 1826.

Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch
An official young demon, preparing to go,
Ready booted and spurred, with a black-leg despatch
From the Hell here at Crockford's, to _our_ Hell below--

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic,
To say that first having obeyed your directions
And done all the mischief I could in "the Panic,"
My next special care was to help the Elections.

Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul,
When every good Christian tormented his brother,
And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal,
From all coming down, ready grilled by each other;

Remembering besides how it pained thee to part
With the old Penal Code--that _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Law,
In which (tho' to own it too modest thou art)
We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;

I thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive,
(Tho' Eldon, with help from your Highness would try,)
'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive,
Could we get up a thundering No-Popery cry;--

That yell which when chorused by laics and clerics,
So like is to _ours_, in its spirit and tone.
That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics,
To think that Religion should make it her own.

So, having sent down for the original notes
Of the chorus as sung by your Majesty's choir
With a few pints of lava to gargle the throats
Of myself and some others who sing it "with fire,"[1]

Thought I, "if the Marseillais Hymn could command
"Such audience, tho' yelled by a _Sans-culotte_ crew
"What wonders shall _we_ do, who've men in our band,
"That not only wear breeches but petticoats too."

Such _then_ were my hopes, but with sorrow, your Highness,
I'm forced to confess--be the cause what it will,
Whether fewness of voices or hoarseness or shyness,--
Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill.

The truth is no placeman now knows his right key,
The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various;
And certain _base_ voices, that lookt for a fee
At the _York_ music-meeting now think it precarious.

Even some of our Reverends _might_ have been warmer,--
Tho' one or two capital roarers we've had;
Doctor Wise[2]is for instance a charming performer,
And _Huntingdon_ Maberley's yell was not bad!

Altogether however the thing was not hearty;--
Even Eldon allows we got on but so so;
And when next we attempt a No-Popery party,
We _must_, please your Highness, recruit _from below_.

But hark! the young Black-leg is cracking his whip--
Excuse me, Great Sir-there's no time to be civil;--
The next opportunity shan't be let slip,
But, till then,
I'm, in haste, your most dutiful
DEVIL.

_July, 1826_

[1] _Con fuoco_--a music-book direction.

[2] This reverend gentleman distinguished himself at the Reading election.

THE MILLENNIUM.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY."

1826

A millennium at hand!--I'm delighted to hear it--
As matters both public and private now go,
With multitudes round us all starving or near it.
A good, rich Millennium will come _a-propos_.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold,
Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags,
A bran-new Jerusalem built all of gold,
Sound bullion throughout from the roof to the flags--

A City where wine and cheap corn[1] shall abound--
A celestial _Cocaigne_ on whose buttery shelves
We may swear the best things of this world will be found,
As your Saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures Elysian,
Divine Squintifobus who, placed within reach
Of two opposite worlds, by a twist of your vision
Can cast at the same time a sly look at each;--

Thanks, thanks for the hope thou affordest, that we
May even in our own times a Jubilee share.
Which so long has been promist by prophets like thee,
And so often postponed, we began to despair.

There was Whiston[2] who learnedly took Prince Eugene
For the man who must bring the Millennium about;
There's Faber whose pious productions have been
All belied ere his book's first edition was out;--

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M. P.,
Who discoursed on the subject with signal _eclat_,
And, each day of his life sat expecting to see
A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh![3]

There was also--but why should I burden my lay
With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving,
When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way
To the last new Millennium of Orator Irving.

Go on, mighty man,--doom them all to the shelf,--
And when next thou with Prophecy troublest thy sconce,
Oh forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself
Art the Beast (Chapter iv.) that sees nine ways at once.

[1] "A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley
for a penny."--Rev. vi.

[2] When Whiston presented to Prince Eugene the Essay in which he
attempted to connect his victories over the Turks with Revelation, the
Prince is said to have replied, that "he was not aware he had ever had
ever had honor of being known to St. John".

[3] Mr. Dobbs was a member of the Irish Parliament, and, on all other
subjects but the Millennium, a very sensible person: he chose Armagh as
the scene of his Millennium on account of the name Armageddon mentioned in
Revelation.

THE THREE DOCTORS.

_doctoribus loetamur tribus_.

1826.

Tho' many great Doctors there be,
There are three that all Doctors out-top,
Doctor Eady, that famous M. D.,
Doctor Southey, and dear Doctor Slop.[1]

The purger, the proser, the bard--
All quacks in a different style;
Doctor Southey writes books by the yard.
Doctor Eady writes puffs by the mile![2]

Doctor Slop, in no merit outdone
By his scribbling or physicking brother,
Can dose us with stuff like the one.
Ay, and _doze_ us with stuff like the other.

Doctor Eady good company keeps
With "No Popery" scribes, on the walls;
Doctor Southey as gloriously sleeps
With "No Popery" scribes on the stalls.

Doctor Slop, upon subjects divine,
Such bedlamite slaver lets drop,
Taat if Eady should take the _mad_ line,
He'll be sure of a patient in Slop.

Seven millions of Papists, no less,
Doctor Southey attacks, like a Turk;
Doctor Eady, less bold, I confess,
Attacks but his maid-of-all-work

Doctor Southey, for _his_ grand attack,
Both a laureate and pensioner is;
While poor Doctor Eady, alack,
Has been _had up_ to Bow-street for his!

And truly, the law does so blunder,
That tho' little blood has been spilt, he
May probably suffer as, under
The _Chalking_ Act, _known_ to be guilty.

So much for the merits sublime
(With whose catalogue ne'er should I stop)
Of the three greatest lights of our time,
Doctor Eady and Southey and Slop!

Should you ask me, to _which_ of the three
Great Doctors the preference should fall,
As a matter of course I agree
Doctor Eady must go to _the wall_.

But as Southey with laurels is crowned,
And Slop with a wig and a tail is,
Let Eady's bright temples be bound
With a swingeing "Corona _Muralis_!"[3]

[1] The editor of the Morning Herald, so nicknamed.

[2] Alluding to the display of this doctor's name, in chalk, on all the
walls round the metropolis.

[3] A crown granted as a reward among the Romans to persons who performed
any extraordinary exploits upon wall, such as scaling them, battering
them, etc.--No doubt, writing upon them, to the extent Dr. Eady does,
would equally establish a claim to the honor.

EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,
For here lies one who ne'er preferred
A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside him place the God of Wit,
Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,
Apollo for a _star_ he'd quit,
And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford,
He took of course to peers' relations;
And rather than not sport a Lord
Put up with even the last creations;

Even Irish names could he but tag 'em
With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call;
And at a pinch Lord Ballyraggum
Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
For rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteelly damned beside a Duke,
Than saved in vulgar company.

ODE TO A HAT.

--_altum aedificat caput_."
JUVENAL

1826.

Hail, reverent Hat!--sublime mid all
The minor felts that round thee grovel;--
Thou that the Gods "a Delta" call
While meaner mortals call the "shovel."
When on thy shape (like pyramid,
Cut horizontally in two)[1]
I raptured gaze, what dreams unbid
Of stalls and mitres bless my view!

That brim of brims so sleekly good--
Not flapt, like dull Wesleyans', down,
But looking (as all churchmen's should)
Devoutly upward--towards the _crown_.

Gods! when I gaze upon that brim,
So redolent of Church all over,
What swarms of Tithes in vision dim,--
Some-pig-tailed, some like cherubim,
With ducklings' wings--around it hover!
Tenths of all dead and living things,
That Nature into being brings,
From calves and corn to chitterlings.

Say, holy Hat, that hast, of cocks,
The very cock most orthodox.
To _which_ of all the well-fed throng
Of Zion,[2] joy'st thou to belong?
Thou'rt _not_ Sir Harcourt Lees's--no-
For hats grow like the heads that wear 'em:
And hats, on heads like his, would grow
Particularly _harum-scarum_.

Who knows but thou mayst deck the pate
Of that famed Doctor Ad-mth-te,
(The reverend rat, whom we saw stand
On his hind-legs in Westmoreland,)
Who changed so quick from _blue_ to _yellow_,
And would from _yellow_ back to _blue_,
And back again, convenient fellow,
If 'twere his interest so to do.

Or haply smartest of triangles,
Thou art the hat of Doctor Owen;
The hat that, to his vestry wrangles,
That venerable priest doth go in,--
And then and there amid the stare
Of all St. Olave's, takes the chair
And quotes with phiz right orthodox
The example of his reverend brothers,
To prove that priests all fleece their flocks
And _he_ must fleece as well as others.

Blest Hat! (whoe'er thy lord may be)
Thus low I take off mine to thee,
The homage of a layman's _castor_,
To the spruce _delta_ of his pastor.
Oh mayst thou be, as thou proceedest,
Still smarter cockt, still brusht the brighter,
Till, bowing all the way, thou leadest
Thy sleek possessor to a mitre!

[1] So described by a Reverend Historian of the Church:--"A Delta hat like
the horizontal section of a pyramid."--GRANT'S "History of the English
Church."

[2] Archbishop Magee affectionately calls the Church Establishment of
Ireland "the little Zion."

NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS.

Dear Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper,
When Parliament's up, ever take in a paper,
But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends
As you chance to pick up from political friends-
Being one of this well-informed class, I sit down
To transmit you the last newest news that's in town.

As to Greece and Lord Cochrane, things couldn't look better--
His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster)
Has just taken Rhodes and despatched off a letter
To Daniel O'Connell, to make him Grand Master;
Engaging to change the old name, if he can,
From the Knights of St. John to the Knights of St. Dan;--
Or if Dan should prefer (as a still better whim)
Being made the Colossus, 'tis all one to him.

From Russia the last accounts are that the Tsar--
Most generous and kind as all sovereigns are,
And whose first princely act (as you know, I suppose)
Was to give away all his late brother's old clothes[1]--
Is now busy collecting with brotherly care
The late Emperor's nightcaps, and thinks, of bestowing
One nightcap apiece (if he has them to spare)
On all the distinguisht old ladies now going.
(While I write, an arrival from Riga--the "Brothers"--
Having nightcaps on board for Lord Eldon and others.)

Last advices from India--Sir Archy, 'tis thought,
Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught
In N. Lat. 2l.)--and his Highness Burmese,
Being very hard prest to shell out the rupees,
And not having rhino sufficient, they say, meant
To pawn his august Golden Foot[2] for the payment.

(How lucky for monarchs, that thus when they choose
Can establish a _running_ account with the Jews!)
The security being what Rothschild calls "goot,"
A loan will be shortly, of course, set _on foot_;
The parties are Rothschild, A. Baring and Co.
With three other great pawnbrokers: each takes a toe,
And engages (lest Gold-foot should give us _leg_-bail,
As he did once before) to pay down _on the nail_.

* * * * *

This is all for the present--what vile pens and paper!
Yours truly, dear Cousin--best love to Miss Draper.

_September_, 1826.

[1] A distribution was made of the Emperor Alexander's military wardrobe
by his successor.

[2] This potentate styles himself the Monarch of the Golden foot.

A VISION.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTABEL."

"Up!" said the Spirit and ere I could pray
One hasty orison, whirled me away
To a Limbo, lying--I wist not where--
Above or below, in earth or air;
For it glimmered o'er with a _doubtful_ light,
One couldn't say whether 'twas day or night;
And 'twas crost by many a mazy track,
One didn't know how to get on or back;
And I felt like a needle that's going astray
(With its _one_ eye out) thro' a bundle of hay;
When the Spirit he grinned, and whispered me,
"Thou'rt now in the Court of Chancery!"

Around me flitted unnumbered swarms
Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms;
(Like bottled-up babes that grace the room
Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)--
All of them, things half-killed in rearing;
Some were lame--some wanted _hearing_;
Some had thro' half a century run,
Tho' they hadn't a leg to stand upon.
Others, more merry, as just beginning,
Around on a _point of law_ were spinning;
Or balanced aloft, 'twixt _Bill_ and _Answer_,
Lead at each end, like a tight-rope dancer.
Some were so _cross_ that nothing could please 'em;-
Some gulpt down _affidavits_ to ease 'em--
All were in motion, yet never a one,
Let it _move_ as it might, could ever move _on_,
"These," said the Spirit, "you plainly see,
"Are what they call suits in Chancery!"

I heard a loud screaming of old and young,
Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis sung;
Or an Irish Dump ("the words by Moore ")
At an amateur concert screamed in score;--
So harsh on my ear that wailing fell
Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell!
It seemed like the dismal symphony
Of the shapes' Aeneas in hell did see;
Or those frogs whose legs a barbarous cook
Cut off and left the frogs in the brook,
To cry all night, till life's last dregs,
"Give us our legs!--give us our legs!"
Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene,
I askt what all this yell might mean,
When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee,
"'Tis the cry of the Suitors in Chancery!"

I lookt and I saw a wizard rise,[1]
With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes.
In his aged hand he held a wand,
Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band,
And they moved and moved as he waved it o'er,
But they never get on one inch the more.
And still they kept limping to and fro,
Like Ariels round old Prospero--
Saying, "Dear Master, let us go,"
But still old Prospero answered "No."
And I heard the while that wizard elf
Muttering, muttering spells to himself,
While o'er as many old papers he turned,
As Hume e'er moved for or Omar burned.
He talkt of his virtue--"tho' some, less nice,
(He owned with a sigh) preferred his _Vice_"--
And he said, "I think"--"I doubt"--"I hope,"
Called God to witness, and damned the Pope;
With many more sleights of tongue and hand
I couldn't for the soul of me understand.
Amazed and posed, I was just about
To ask his name, when the screams without,
The merciless clack of the imps within,
And that conjuror's mutterings, made such a din,
That, startled, I woke--leapt up in my bed--
Found the Spirit, the imps, and the conjuror fled,
And blest my stars, right pleased to see,
That I wasn't as yet in Chancery.

[1] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.

THE PETITION OF THE ORANGEMEN OF IRELAND.

1826.

To the people of England, the humble Petition
Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing--
That sad, very sad, is our present condition;--
Our jobbing all gone and our noble selves going;--

That forming one seventh, within a few fractions,
Of Ireland's seven millions of hot heads and hearts,
We hold it the basest of all base transactions
To keep us from murdering the other six parts;--

That as to laws made for the good of the many,
We humbly suggest there is nothing less true;
As all human laws (and our own, more than any)
Are made _by_ and _for_ a particular few:--

That much it delights every true Orange brother
To see you in England such ardor evince,
In discussing _which_ sect most tormented the other,
And burned with most _gusto_ some hundred years since;--

That we love to behold, while old England grows faint,
Messrs. Southey and Butler nigh coming to blows,
To decide whether Dunstan, that strong-bodied Saint,
Ever truly and really pulled the De'il's nose;

Whether t'other Saint, Dominic, burnt the De'il's paw--
Whether Edwy intrigued with Elgiva's odd mother--
And many such points, from which Southey can draw
Conclusions most apt for our hating each other.

That 'tis very well known this devout Irish nation
Has now for some ages, gone happily on
Believing in two kinds of Substantiation,
One party in _Trans_ and the other in _Con_;[1]

That we, your petitioning _Cons_, have in right
Of the said monosyllable ravaged the lands
And embezzled the goods and annoyed, day and night,
Both the bodies and souls of the sticklers for _Trans_;--

That we trust to Peel, Eldon, and other such sages,
For keeping us still in the same state of mind;
Pretty much as the world used to be in those ages,
When still smaller syllables maddened mankind;--

When the words _ex_ and _per_[2] served as well to annoy
One's neighbors and friends with, as _con_ and _trans_ now;
And Christians, like Southey, who stickled for _oi_,
Cut the throats of all Christians who stickled for _ou_.[3]

That relying on England whose kindness already
So often has helpt us to play this game o'er,
We have got our red coats and our carabines ready,
And wait but the word to show sport as before.

That as to the expense--the few millions or so,
Which for all such diversions John Bull has to pay--
'Tis at least a great comfort to John Bull to know
That to Orangemen's pockets 'twill all find its way.
For which your petitioners ever will pray,
Etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.

[1] Consubstantiation--the true Reformed belief; at least, the belief of
Luther, and, as Mosheim asserts, of Melancthon also.

[2] When John of Ragusa went to Constantinople (at the time this dispute
between "_ex_" and "_per_" was going on), he found the Turks, we
are told, "laughing at the Christians for being divided by two such
insignificant particles."

[3] The Arian controversy.--Before that time, says Hooker, "in order to be
a sound believing Christian, men were not curious what syllables or
particles of speech they used."

COTTON AND CORN.

A DIALOGUE.

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,
As they met and exchanged a salute--
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,
Poor Cotton half famished on foot):

"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil
"To hint at starvation before you,
"Look down on a poor hungry devil,
"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?