The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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"No--thanks to the taxes and debt,
"And the triumph of paper o'er guineas,
"Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,
"May defy your whole rabble of _Jennys_!"

So saying--whip, crack, and away
Went Corn in his chaise thro' the throng,
So headlong, I heard them all say,
"Squire Corn will be _down_ before long."

THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT BUTTERWORTH.

"A Christian of the best edition."--RABELAIS.

Canonize him!--yea, verily, we'll canonize him,
Tho' Cant is his hobby and meddling his bliss,
Tho' sages may pity and wits may despise him,
He'll ne'er make a bit the worse Saint for all this.

Descend, all ye Spirits, that ever yet spread
The dominion of Humbug o'er land and o'er sea,
Descend on our Butterworth's biblical head,
Thrice-Great, Bibliopolist, Saint, and M. P.

Come, shade of Joanna, come down from thy sphere.
And bring little Shiloh--if 'tisn't too far--
Such a sight will to Butterworth's bosom be dear,
_His_ conceptions and _thine_ being much on a par.

Nor blush, Saint Joanna, once more to behold
A world thou hast honored by cheating so many;
Thou'lt find still among us one Personage old,
Who also by tricks and the _Seals_[1] makes a penny.

Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee![2]
Thy smiles to beatified Butterworth deign;
Two "lights of the Gentiles" are thou, Anne, and he,
_One_ hallowing Fleet Street, and _t'other_ Toad Lane![3]

The heathen, we know, made their Gods out of wood,
And Saints may be framed of as handy materials;--
Old women and Butterworths make just as good
As any the Pope ever _bookt_ as Ethereals.

Stand forth, Man of Bibles!--not Mahomet's pigeon,
When perched on the Koran, he dropt there, they say,
Strong marks of his faith, ever shed o'er religion
Such glory as Butterworth sheds every day.

Great Galen of souls, with what vigor he crams
Down Erin's idolatrous throats, till they crack again,
Bolus on bolus, good man!--and then damns
Both their stomachs and souls, if they dare cast them back again.

How well might his shop--as a type representing
The creed of himself and his sanctified clan--
On its counter exhibit "the Art of Tormenting,"
Bound neatly, and lettered "Whole Duty of Man!"

Canonize him!--by Judas, we _will_ canonize him;
For Cant is his hobby and twaddling his bliss;
And tho' wise men may pity and wits may despise him,
He'll make but the better _shop_-saint for all this.

Call quickly together the whole tribe of Canters,
Convoke all the _serious_ Tag-rag of the nation;
Bring Shakers and Snufflers and Jumpers and Ranters
To witness their Butterworth's Canonization!

Yea, humbly I've ventured his merits to paint,
Yea, feebly have tried all his gifts to portray,
And they form a sum-total for making a Saint.
That the Devil's own advocate could not gainsay.

Jump high, all ye Jumpers, ye Ranters all roar,
While Butterworth's spirit, upraised from your eyes,
Like a kite made of foolscap, in glory shall soar,
With a long tail of rubbish behind, to the skies!

[1] A great part of the income of Joanna Southcott arose from the Seals of
the Lord's protection which she sold to her followers.

[2] Mrs. Anne Lee, the "chosen vessel" of the Shakers, and "Mother of all
the children of regeneration."

[3] Toad Lane, in Manchester, where Mother Lee was born. In her "Address
to Young Believers," she says, that "it is a matter of no importance with
them from whence the means of their deliverance come, whether from a
stable in Bethlehem, or from Toad Lane, Manchester."

AN INCANTATION.

SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT.

Air.--_Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow_.

Come with me and we will blow
Lots of bubbles as we go;
Bubbles bright as ever Hope
Drew from fancy--or from soap;
Bright as e'er the South Sea sent
From its frothy element!
Come with me and we will blow
Lots of bubbles as we go.
Mix the lather, Johnny Wilks,
Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks;[1]
Mix the lather--who can be
Fitter for such tasks than thee,
Great M. P. for _Suds_bury!

Now the frothy charm is ripe,
Puffing Peter,[2] bring thy pipe,--
Thou whom ancient Coventry
Once so dearly loved that she
Knew not which to her was sweeter,
Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter;--
Puff the bubbles high in air,
Puff thy best to keep them there.

Bravo, bravo, Peter More!
Now the rainbow humbugs[3] soar.
Glittering all with golden hues
Such as haunt the dreams of Jews;--
Some reflecting mines that lie
Under Chili's glowing sky,
Some, those virgin pearls that sleep
Cloistered in the southern deep;
Others, as if lent a ray
From the streaming Milky Way,
Glistening o'er with curds and whey
From the cows of Alderney.

Now's the moment--who shall first
Catch the bubbles ere they burst?
Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run,
Brogden, Teynham, Palmerston;--
John Wilks junior runs beside ye!
Take the good the knaves provide ye!
See, with upturned eyes and hands,
Where the _Share_man, Brogden, stands,
Gaping for the froth to fall
Down his gullet--_lye_ and all.
See!--

But, hark, my time is out--
Now, like some great water-spout,
Scattered by the cannon's thunder,
Burst ye bubbles, all asunder!

[_Here the stage darkens--a discordant crash is heard from the orchestra
--the broken bubbles descend in a saponaceous but uncleanly mist over the
heads of the_ Dramatis Personae_, and the scene drops, leaving the
bubble-hunters--all in the suds_.]

[1] Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes
to names. Marvell thought so when he wrote "Sir Edward Button, The foolish
Knight who rhymes to mutton."

[2] The member, during a long period, for Coventry.

[3] An humble imitation of one of our modern poets, who, in a poem against
War, after describing the splendid habiliments of the soldier, thus
apostrophizes him--"thou rainbow ruffian!"

A DREAM OF TURTLE.

BY SIR W. CURTIS.

1826.

'Twas evening time, in the twilight sweet
I sailed along, when--whom should I meet
But a Turtle journeying o'er the sea,
"On the service of his Majesty."[1]
When spying him first thro' twilight dim,
I didn't know what to make of him;
But said to myself, as slow he plied
His fins and rolled from side to side
Conceitedly o'er the watery path--
"'Tis my Lord of Stowell taking a bath,
"And I hear him now, among the fishes,
"Quoting Vatel and Burgersdicius!"
But, no--'twas, indeed, a Turtle wide
And plump as ever these eyes descried;
A turtle juicy as ever yet
Glued up the lips of a Baronet!
And much did it grieve my soul to see
That an animal of such dignity,
Like an absentee abroad should roam,
When he _ought_ to stay and be ate at home.

But now "a change came o'er my dream,"
Like the magic lantern's shifting slider;
I lookt and saw by the evening beam
On the back of that Turtle sat a rider--
A goodly man with an eye so merry,
I knew 'twas our Foreign Secretary,[2]
Who there at his ease did sit and smile,
Like Waterton on his crocodile;[3]
Cracking such jokes, at every motion,
As made the Turtle squeak with glee
And own they gave him a lively notion
Of what his _forced_-meat balls would be.
So, on the Sec. in his glory went.
Over that briny element,
Waving his hand as he took farewell
With graceful air, and bidding me tell
Inquiring friends that the Turtle and he
Were gone on a foreign embassy--
To soften the heart of a _Diplomat_,
Who is known to dote upon verdant fat,
And to let admiring Europe see,
That _calipash_ and _calipee_
Are the English forms of Diplomacy.

[1] We are told that the passport of this grand diplomatic Turtle (sent by
the Secretary for Foreign Affairs to a certain noble envoy) described him
as "on his majesty's service."

[2] Mr. Canning.

[3] _Wanderings in South America_. "It was the first and last time [says
Mr. Waterton] I was ever on a crocodile's back."

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.

A FABLE.

--_"fessus jam sudat asellus,
"parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus."_
VERGIL. _Copa_.

A donkey whose talent for burdens was wondrous,
So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so ponderous,
That--down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road!

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze
What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy,
So easy to drive thro' the dirtiest ways
For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hailed" as a "brother")[1]
Had just been proclaiming his Donkey's renown
For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other--
When, lo! mid his praises the Donkey came down!
But how to upraise him?--_one_ shouts, _t'other_ whistles,
While Jenky, the Conjuror, wisest of all,
Declared that an "over-production of thistles[2]--
(Here Ned gave a stare)--was the cause of his fall."

Another wise Solomon cries as he passes--
"There, let him alone and the fit will soon cease;
"The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,
"And this is his mode of '_transition to peace_.'"

Some lookt at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces
Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone--
"Let the blacksmith provide him a _sound metal basis_,"
(The wise-acres said), "and he's sure to jog on."

Meanwhile, the poor Neddy in torture and fear
Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan;
And--what was still dolefuller--lending an ear
To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length a plain rustic whose wit went so far
As to see others' folly, roared out, as he past--
"Quick--off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
"Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!"

October, 1826.

[1] Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge's, addressed to an Ass, and
beginning, "I hail thee, brother!"

[2] A certain country gentleman having said in the House, "that we must
return at last to the food of our ancestors," somebody asked Mr. T. "what
food the gentleman meant?"--"Thistles, I suppose," answered Mr. T.

ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE.

1826.

Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions!
And oh! above all I admire that Decree,
In which thou command'st that all _she_ politicians
Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea.

'Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster--
A maid who her faith in old Jeremy puts,
Who talks with a lisp of "the last new West_minster_,"
And hopes you're delighted with "Mill upon Gluts;"

Who tells you how clever one Mr. Funblank is,
How charming his Articles 'gainst the Nobility;--
And assures you that even a gentleman's rank is
In Jeremy's school, of no sort of _utility_.

To see her, ye Gods, a new Number perusing--
ART. 1.--"On the _Needle's_ variations," by Pl--ce;[1]
ART. 2.--By her Favorite Funblank[2]--"so amusing!
"Dear man! he makes Poetry quite a _Law_ case."

ART. 3.--"Upon Fallacies," Jeremy's own--
(Chief Fallacy being his hope to find readers);-
ART. 4.--"Upon Honesty," author unknown;--
ART. 5.--(by the young Mr. Mill) "Hints to Breeders."

Oh, Sultan, oh, Sultan, tho' oft for the bag
And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call--
Tho' drowning's too good for each blue-stocking hag,
I would bag this _she_ Benthamite first of them all!

And lest she should ever again lift her head
From the watery bottom, her clack to renew--
As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead,
I would hang around her neck her own darling Review.

[1] A celebrated political tailor.

[2] This pains-taking gentleman has been at the trouble of counting, with
the assistance of Cocker, the number of metaphors in Moore's "_Life of
Sheridan_," and has found them to amount, as nearly as possible, to 2235--
and some _fractions_.

CORN AND CATHOLICS.

_utrum horum
dirius_ borun? _Incerti Auctoris_.

What! _still_ those two infernal questions,
That with our meals our slumbers mix--
That spoil our tempers and digestions--
Eternal Corn and Catholics!

Gods! were there ever two such bores?
Nothing else talkt of night or morn--
Nothing _in_ doors or _out_ of doors,
But endless Catholics and Corn!

Never was such a brace of pests--
While Ministers, still worse than either,
Skilled but in feathering their nests,
Plague us with both and settle neither.

So addled in my cranium meet
Popery and Corn that oft I doubt,
Whether, this year, 'twas bonded Wheat,
Or bonded Papists, they let out.

_Here_, landlords, _here_ polemics nail you,
Armed with all rubbish they can rake up;
_Prices_ and _Texts_ at once assail you--
From Daniel _these_, and _those_ from Jacob,

And when you sleep, with head still torn
Between the two, their shapes you mix,
Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn--
Then Corn again seems Catholics.

Now Dantsic wheat before you floats--
Now Jesuits from California--
Now Ceres linkt with Titus _Oats_,
Comes dancing thro' the "Porta _Corn_ea."[1]

Oft too the Corn grows animate,
And a whole crop of heads appears,
Like Papists, _bearding_ Church and State--
Themselves, together _by the ears_!

In short these torments never cease,
And oft I wish myself transferred off
To some far, lonely land of peace
Where Corn or Papists ne'er were heard of.

Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole;
For--if my fate is to be chosen
'Twixt bores and icebergs--on my soul,
I'd rather, of the two, be frozen!

[1] The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true
dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, etc.) to pass.

A CASE OF LIBEL.

"The greater the truth, the worse the libel."

A certain Sprite, who dwells below,
('Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,)
Came up _incog_. some years ago
To try for a change the London air.

So well he lookt and drest and talkt,
And hid his tail and horns so handy,
You'd hardly have known him as he walkt
From C----e, or any other Dandy.

(His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew;
So he has but to take them out of the socket,
And--just as some fine husbands do--
Conveniently clap them into his pocket.)

In short, he lookt extremely natty,
And even contrived--to his own great wonder--
By dint of sundry scents from Gattie,
To keep the sulphurous _hogo_ under.

And so my gentleman hoofed about,
Unknown to all but a chosen few
At White's and Crockford's, where no doubt
He had many _post-obits_ falling due.

Alike a gamester and a wit,
At night he was seen with Crockford's crew,
At morn with learned dames would sit--
So past his time 'twixt _black_ and _blue_.

Some wisht to make him an M. P.,
But, finding Wilks was also one, he
Swore, in a rage, "he'd be damned, if he
"Would ever sit in one house with Johnny."

At length as secrets travel fast,
And devils, whether he or she,
Are sure to be found out at last,
The affair got wind most rapidly.

The Press, the impartial Press, that snubs
Alike a fiend's or an angel's capers--
Miss Paton's soon as Beelzebub's,
Fired off a squib in the morning papers:

"We warn good men to keep aloof
"From a grim old Dandy seen about
"With a fire-proof wig and a cloven hoof
"Thro' a neat-cut Hoby smoking out."

Now,--the Devil being gentleman,
Who piques himself on well-bred dealings,--
You may guess, when o'er these lines he ran,
How much they hurt and shockt his feelings.

Away he posts to a Man of Law,
And 'twould make you laugh could you have seen 'em,
As paw shook hand, and hand shook paw,
And 'twas "hail, good fellow, well met," between 'em.

Straight an indictment was preferred--
And much the Devil enjoyed the jest,
When, asking about the Bench, he heard
That, of all the Judges, his own was _Best_.[1]

In vain Defendant proffered proof
That Plaintiff's self was the Father of Evil--
Brought Hoby forth to swear to the hoof
And Stultz to speak to the tail of the Devil.

The Jury (saints, all snug and rich,
And readers of virtuous Sunday papers)
Found for the Plaintiff--on hearing which
The Devil gave one of his loftiest capers.

For oh, 'twas nuts to the Father of Lies
(As this wily fiend is named in the Bible)
To find it settled by laws so wise,
That the greater the truth, the worse the libel!

[1] A celebrated Judge, so named.

LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.

Wanted--Authors of all-work to job for the season,
No matter which party, so faithful to neither;
Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason.
Can manage, like ******, to do without either.

If in jail, all the better for out-o'-door topics;
Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat;
They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics,
And sail round the world at their ease in the Fleet.

For a dramatist too the most useful of schools--
He can study high life in the King's Bench community;
Aristotle could scarce keep him more _within rules_,
And of _place_ he at least must adhere to the _unity_.

Any lady or gentleman, come to an age
To have good "Reminiscences" (three-score or higher)
Will meet with encouragement--so much, _per_ page,
And the spelling and grammar both found by the buyer.

No matter with _what_ their remembrance is stockt,
So they'll only remember the _quantum_ desired;--
Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, _oct_.,
Price twenty-four shillings, is all that's required.

They may treat us, like Kelly, with old _jeu-d'esprits_,
Like Dibdin, may tell of each farcical frolic;
Or kindly inform us, like Madame Genlis,[1]
That gingerbread-cakes always give them the colic.

Wanted also a new stock of Pamphlets on Corn
By "Farmers" and "Landholders"--(worthies whose lands
Enclosed all in bow-pots their attics adorn,
Or whose share of the soil maybe seen on their hands).

No-Popery Sermons, in ever so dull a vein,
Sure of a market;--should they too who pen 'em
Be renegade Papists, like Murtagh O'Sullivan,[2]
Something _extra_ allowed for the additional venom.

Funds, Physics, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance,
All excellent subjects for turning a penny;--
To write upon _all_ is an author's sole chance
For attaining, at last, the least knowledge of _any_.

Nine times out of ten, if his _title_ is good,
The material _within_ of small consequence is;--
Let him only write fine, and, if not understood,
Why--that's the concern of the reader, not his.

_Nota Bene_--an Essay, now printing, to show,
That Horace (as clearly as words could express it)
Was for taxing the Fund-holders, ages ago,
When he wrote thus--"Quodcunque _in Fund is, assess it."_

[1] This lady also favors us, in her Memoirs, with the address of those
apothecaries, who have, from time to time, given her pills that agreed
with her; always desiring that the pills should be ordered "_comme pour
elle_."

[2] A gentleman, who distinguished himself by his evidence before the
Irish Committees.

THE IRISH SLAVE.[1]

1827.

I heard as I lay, a wailing sound,
"He is dead--he is dead," the rumor flew;
And I raised my chain and turned me round,
And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?"

I saw my livid tormentors pass;
Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see!
For never came joy to them alas!
That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night,
And askt, "What foe of my race hath died?
"Is it he--that Doubter of law and right,
"Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide--

"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,
"Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt
"What suitors for justice he'd keep in,
"Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out--

"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance,
"Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea
"Round Sinbad's neck[2]), nor leaves a chance
"Of shaking him off--is't he? is't he?"

Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled,
And thrusting me back to my den of woe,
With a laughter even more fierce and wild
Than their funeral howling, answered "No."

But the cry still pierced my prison-gate,
And again I askt, "What scourge is gone?
"Is it he--that Chief, so coldly great,
"Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon--

"Whose name is one of the ill-omened words
"They link with hate on his native plains;
"And why?--they lent him hearts and swords,
"And he in return gave scoffs and chains!

"Is it he? is it he?" I loud inquired,
When, hark!--there sounded a Royal knell;
And I knew what spirit had just expired,
And slave as I was my triumph fell.

He had pledged a hate unto me and mine,
He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,
But sealed that hate with a Name Divine,
And he now was dead and--I _couldn't_ rejoice!

He had fanned afresh the burning brands
Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had armed anew my torturers' hands,
And _them_ did I curse--but sighed for him.

For, _his_ was the error of head not heart;
And--oh! how beyond the ambushed foe,
Who to enmity adds the traitor's part,
And carries a smile with a curse below!

If ever a heart made bright amends
For the fatal fault of an erring head--
Go, learn _his_ fame from the lips of friends,
In the orphan's tear be his glory read.

A Prince without pride, a man without guile,
To the last unchanging, warm, sincere,
For Worth he had ever a hand and smile,
And for Misery ever his purse and tear.

Touched to the heart by that solemn toll,
I calmly sunk in my chains again;
While, still as I said, "Heaven rest his soul!"
My mates of the dungeon sighed "Amen!"

January, 1827.

[1] Written on the death of the Duke of York.

[2] "You fell, said they, into the hands of the Old Man of the Sea, and
are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious
tricks."--_Story of Sinbad_.

ODE TO FERDINAND.

1827.

Quit the sword, thou King of men,
Grasp the needle once again;
Making petticoats is far
Safer sport than making war;
Trimming is a better thing,
Than the _being_ trimmed, oh King!
Grasp the needle bright with which
Thou didst for the Virgin stitch
Garment, such as ne'er before
Monarch stitched or Virgin wore,
Not for her, oh semster nimble!
Do I now invoke thy thimble;
Not for her thy wanted aid is,
But for certain grave old ladies,
Who now sit in England's cabinet,
Waiting to be clothed in tabinet,
Or whatever choice _etoffe_ is
Fit for Dowagers in office.
First, thy care, oh King, devote
To Dame Eldon's petticoat.
Make it of that silk whose dye
Shifts for ever to the eye,
Just as if it hardly knew
Whether to be pink or blue.
Or--material fitter yet--
If thou couldst a remnant get
Of that stuff with which, of old,
Sage Penelope, we're told,
Still by doing and undoing,
Kept her _suitors_ always wooing--
That's the stuff which I pronounce, is
Fittest for Dame Eldon's flounces.

After this, we'll try thy hand,
Mantua-making Ferdinand,
For old Goody Westmoreland;
One who loves, like Mother Cole,
Church and State with all her soul;
And has past her life in frolics
Worthy of our Apostolics.
Choose, in dressing this old flirt,
Something that won't show the dirt,
As, from habit, every minute
Goody Westmoreland is in it.

This is all I now shall ask,
Hie thee, monarch, to thy task;
Finish Eldon's frills and borders,
Then return for further orders.
Oh what progress for our sake,
Kings in millinery make!
Ribands, garters, and such things,
Are supplied by _other_ Kings--
Ferdinand his rank denotes
By providing petticoats.

HAT _VERSUS_ WIG.

1827.

"At the interment of the Duke of York, Lord Eldon, in order to guard
against the effects of the damp, stood upon his hat during the whole
of the ceremony."

--_metus omnes et inexorabile fatum
subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis
avari_.

'Twixt Eldon's Hat and Eldon's Wig
There lately rose an altercation,--
Each with its own importance big,
Disputing _which_ most serves the nation.

Quoth Wig, with consequential air,
"Pooh! pooh! you surely can't design,
"My worthy beaver, to compare
"Your station in the state with mine.

"Who meets the learned legal crew?
"Who fronts the lordly Senate's pride?
"The Wig, the Wig, my friend--while you
"Hang dangling on some peg outside.

"Oh! 'tis the Wig, that rules, like Love,
"Senate and Court, with like _eclat_--
"And wards below and lords above,
"For Law is Wig and Wig is Law!

"Who tried the long, _Long_ WELLESLEY suit,
"Which tried one's patience, in return?
"Not thou, oh Hat!--tho' _couldst_ thou do't,
"Of other _brims_[1] than thine thou'dst learn.

"'Twas mine our master's toil to share;
"When, like 'Truepenny,' in the play,[2]
"He, every minute, cried out 'Swear,'
"And merrily to swear went they;--[3]

"When, loath poor WELLESLEY to condemn, he
"With nice discrimination weighed,
"Whether 'twas only 'Hell and Jemmy,'
Or 'Hell and Tommy' that he played.

"No, no, my worthy beaver, no--
"Tho' cheapened at the cheapest hatter's,
"And smart enough as beavers go
"Thou ne'er wert made for public matters."

Here Wig concluded his oration,
Looking, as wigs do, wondrous wise;
While thus, full cockt for declamation,
The veteran Hat enraged replies:--

"Ha! dost thou then so soon forget
"What thou, what England owes to me?
"Ungrateful Wig!--when will a debt,
"So deep, so vast, be owed thee?

"Think of that night, that fearful night,
"When, thro' the steaming vault below,
"Our master dared, in gout's despite,
"To venture his podagric toe!