The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

T >> Thomas Moore et al >> The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | 69 | 70 | 71 | 72 | 73 | 74 | 75 | 76 | 77 | 78 | 79 | 80 | 81 | 82 | 83 | 84

"Who was it then, thou boaster, say
"When thou hadst to thy box sneaked off,
"Beneath his feet protecting lay,
"And saved him from a mortal cough?

"Think, if Catarrh had quenched that sun,
"How blank this world had been to thee!
"Without that head to shine upon,
"Oh Wig, where would thy glory be?

"You, too, ye Britons,--had this hope
"Of Church and State been ravisht from ye,
"Oh think, how Canning and the Pope
"Would then have played up 'Hell and Tommy'!

"At sea, there's but a plank, they say,
"'Twixt seamen and annihilation;
"A Hat, that awful moment, lay
"'Twixt England and Emancipation!

"Oh!!!--"

At this "Oh!!!" _The Times_ Reporter
Was taken poorly, and retired;
Which made him cut Hat's rhetoric shorter,
Than justice to the case required.

On his return, he found these shocks
Of eloquence all ended quite;
And Wig lay snoring in his box,
And Hat was--hung up for the night.

[1] "_Brim_--a naughty woman."--GROSE.

[2]"_Ghost_[beneath].--Swear!
"_Hamlet_.--Ha, ha! say'st thou so!
Art thou there, Truepenny? Come on."

[3] His Lordship's demand for fresh affidavits was incessant.

THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS.

A SALMAGUNDIAN HYMN.

"To Panurge was assigned the Laird-ship of Salmagundi, which was
yearly worth 6,789,106,789 ryals besides the revenue of the
_Locusts_ and _Periwinkles_, amounting one year with another
to the value of 2,485,768," etc.--RABELAIS.

"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say,
And they cheered and shouted all the way,
As the Laird of Salmagundi went.
To open in state his Parliament.

The Salmagundians once were rich,
Or thought they were--no matter which--
For, every year, the Revenue
From their Periwinkles larger grew;
And their rulers, skilled in all the trick
And legerdemain of arithmetic,
Knew how to place 1, 2, 3, 4,
5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 and 10,
Such various ways, behind, before,
That they made a unit seem a score,
And proved themselves most wealthy men!
So, on they went, a prosperous crew,
The people wise, the rulers clever--
And God help those, like me and you,
Who dared to doubt (as some now do)
That the Periwinkle Revenue
Would thus go flourishing on for ever.

"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say,
And they cheered and shouted all the way,
As the Great Panurge in glory went
To open his own dear Parliament.

But folks at length began to doubt
What all this conjuring was about;
For, every day, more deep in debt
They saw their wealthy rulers get:--
"Let's look (said they) the items thro'
"And see if what we're told be true
"Of our Periwinkle Revenue,"
But, lord! they found there wasn't a tittle
Of truth in aught they heard before;
For they gained by Periwinkles little
And lost by Locusts ten times more!
These Locusts are a lordly breed
Some Salmagundians love to feed.
Of all the beasts that ever were born,
Your Locust most delights in _corn_;
And tho' his body be but small,
To fatten him takes the devil and all!
"Oh fie! oh fie!" was now the cry,
As they saw the gaudy show go by,
As the Laird of Salmagundi went
To open his Locust Parliament!

NEW CREATION OF PEERS.

BATCH THE FIRST.

"His 'prentice han'
He tried on man,
And then he made the lasses."

1827.

"And now," quoth the Minister, (eased of his panics,
And ripe for each pastime the summer affords,)
"Having had our full swing at destroying mechanics,
"By way of _set-off_, let us make a few Lords.

"'Tis pleasant--while nothing but mercantile fractures,
"Some simple, some _compound_, is dinned in our ears--
"To think that, tho' robbed all coarse manufactures,
"We still have our fine manufacture of Peers;--

"Those _Gotielin_ productions which Kings take a pride
"In engrossing the whole fabrication and trade of;
"Choice tapestry things very grand on _one_ side,
"But showing, on t'other, what rags they are made of.

The plan being fixt, raw material was sought,--
No matter how middling, if Tory the creed be;
And first, to begin with, Squire W---, 'twas thought,
For a Lord was as raw a material as need be.

Next came with his _penchant_ for painting and pelf
The tasteful Sir Charles,[1] so renowned far and near
For purchasing pictures and selling himself--
And _both_ (as the public well knows) very dear.

Beside him Sir John comes, with equal _eclat_, in;--
Stand forth, chosen pair, while for titles we measure ye;
Both connoisseur baronets, both fond of _drawing_,
Sir John, after nature, Sir Charles, on the Treasury.

But, bless us!--behold a new candidate come--
In his hand he upholds a prescription, new written:
He poiseth a pill-box 'twixt finger and thumb,
And he asketh a seat 'mong the Peers of Great Britain!

"Forbid it," cried Jenky, "ye Viscounts, ye Earls!
"Oh Rank, how thy glories would fall disenchanted,
"If coronets glistend with pills stead of pearls,
"And the strawberry-leaves were by rhubarb supplanted!

"No--ask it not, ask it not, dear Doctor Holford--
"If naught but a Peerage can gladden thy life,
"And young Master Holford as yet is too small for't,
"Sweet Doctor, we'll make a _she_ Peer of thy wife.

"Next to bearing a coronet on our _own_ brows
"Is to bask in its light from the brows of another;
"And grandeur o'er thee shall reflect from thy spouse,
"As o'er Vesey Fitzgerald 'twill shine thro' his mother."[2]

Thus ended the _First_ Batch--and Jenky, much tired
(It being no joke to make Lords by the heap),
Took a large dram of ether--the same that inspired
His speech 'gainst the Papists--and prosed off to sleep.

[1] Created Lord Farnborough.

[2] Among the persons mentioned as likely to be raised to the
Peerage are the mother of Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald, etc.

SPEECH ON THE UMBRELLA QUESTION.[1]

BY LORD ELDON.

1827.

"_vos_ inumbrelles _video_."--_Ex Juvenil_.
GEORGII CANNINGII.[2]

My Lords, I'm accused of a trick that God knows is
The last into which at my age I could fall--
Of leading this grave House of Peers by their noses,
Wherever I choose, princes, bishops and all.

My Lords, on the question before us at present,
No doubt I shall hear, "'Tis that cursed old fellow,
"That bugbear of all that is liberal and pleasant,
"Who won't let the Lords give the man his umbrella!"

God forbid that your Lordships should knuckle to me;
I am ancient--but were I as old as King Priam,
Not much, I confess, to your credit 'twould be,
To mind such a twaddling old Trojan as I am.

I own, of our Protestant laws I am jealous,
And long as God spares me will always maintain,
That _once_ having taken men's rights, or umbrellas,
We ne'er should consent to restore them again.

What security have you, ye Bishops and Peers,
If thus you give back Mr. Bell's _parapluie_,
That he mayn't with its stick, come about all your ears,
And then--_where_ would your Protestant periwigs be?

No! heaven be my judge, were I dying to-day,
Ere I dropt in the grave, like a medlar that's mellow,
"For God's sake"--at that awful moment I'd say--
"For God's sake, _don't_ give Mr. Bell his umbrella."

["This address," says a ministerial journal, "delivered with amazing
emphasis and earnestness, occasioned an extraordinary sensation in the
House. Nothing since the memorable address of the Duke of York has
produced so remarkable an impression."]

[1] A case which interested the public very much at this period. A
gentleman, of the name, of Bell, having left his umbrella behind him in
the House of Lords, the doorkeepers (standing, no doubt, on the privileges
of that noble body) refused to restore it to him; and the above speech,
which may be considered as a _pendant_ to that of the Learned Earl on
the Catholic Question, arose out of the transaction.

[2] From Mr. Canning's translation of Jekyl's--

"I say, my good fellows,
As you've no umbrellas."

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

BY JOHN BULL.

_Dublin, March 12, 1827_.--Friday, after the arrival of the
packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in
the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward
5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons
round the country.--_Freeman's Journal_.

I have found out a gift for my Erin,
A gift that will surely content her:--
Sweet pledge of a love so endearing!
Five millions of bullets I've sent her.

She askt me for Freedom and Right,
But ill she her wants understood;--
Ball cartridges, morning and night,
Is a dose that will do her more good.

There is hardly a day of our lives
But we read, in some amiable trials,
How husbands make love to their wives
Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials.

_One_ thinks, with his mistress or mate
A good halter is sure to agree--
That love-knot which, early and late,
I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee.

While _another_, whom Hymen has blest
With a wife that is not over placid,
Consigns the dear charmer to rest,
With a dose of the best Prussic acid.

Thus, Erin! my love do I show--
Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed!
And, as poison and hemp are too slow,
Do thy business with bullets instead.

Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken,
Ask Roden, that mildest of saints;
He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken,
Alone can remove thy complaints;--

That, blest as thou art in thy lot,
Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant
But being hanged, tortured and shot,
Much oftener than thou art at present.

Even Wellington's self hath averred
Thou art yet but half sabred and hung,
And I loved him the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from his tongue.

So take the five millions of pills,
Dear partner, I herewith inclose;
'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill,
From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.

And you, ye brave bullets that go,
How I wish that, before you set out,
The _Devil_ of the Freischuetz could know
The good work you are going about.

For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead.
Into such supernatural wit.
That you'd all of you know, as you sped,
Where a bullet of sense _ought_ to hit.

A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.[1]

_regnis_ EX _sul ademptis_.--Verg. 1827.

To Swanage--that neat little town in whose bay
Fair Thetis shows off in her best silver slippers--
Lord Bags[2] took his annual trip t'other day,
To taste the sea breezes and chat with the dippers.

There--learned as he is in conundrums and laws--
Quoth he to his dame (whom he oft plays the wag on),
"Why are chancery suitors like bathers?"--"Because
Their _suits_ are _put off_, till they haven't a rag on."

Thus on he went chatting--but, lo! while he chats,
With a face full of wonder around him he looks;
For he misses his parsons, his dear shovel hats,
Who used to flock round him at Swanage like rooks.

"How is this, Lady Bags?--to this region aquatic
"Last year they came swarming to make me their bow,
"As thick as Burke's cloud o'er the vales of Carnatic,
"Deans, Rectors, D.D.'s--where the devil are they now?"

"My dearest Lord Bags!" saith his dame, "_can_ you doubt?
"I am loath to remind you of things so unpleasant;
"But _don't_ you perceive, dear, the Church have found out
"That you're one of the people called _Ex's_, at present?"

"Ah, true--you have hit it--I _am_, indeed, one
"Of those ill-fated _Ex's_ (his Lordship replies),
"And with tears, I confess--God forgive me the pun!--
"We X's have proved ourselves _not_ to be Y's."

[1] A small bathing-place on the coast of Dorsetshire, long a favorite
summer resort of the ex-nobleman in question and, _till this season_, much
frequented also by gentlemen of the church.

[2] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.

WO! WO![1]

Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it--
That beautiful Light which is now on its way;
Which beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet,
Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!

Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee!
How formed to all tastes are thy various employs.
The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee;
The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.

Wo, wo to the man who such doings would smother!--
On, Luther of Bavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy!
With whip in one hand and with Bible in t'other,
Like Mungo's tormentor, both "preachee and floggee."

Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way;
Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition,
Popt Shakespeare, they say, in the river one day,
Tho' 'twas only old Bowdler's _Velluti_ edition.

Come, Roden, who doubtest--so mild are thy views--
Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation;
Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose
'Twixt good _old_ Rebellion and _new_ Reformation.

What more from her Saints can Hibernia require?
St. Bridget of yore like a dutiful daughter
Supplied her, 'tis said, with perpetual fire,[2]
And Saints keep her _now_ in eternal hot water.

Wo, wo to the man who would check their career,
Or stop the Millennium that's sure to await us,
When blest with an orthodox crop every year,
We shall learn to raise Protestants fast as potatoes.

In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know,
Had been trying their talent for many a day;
Till Farnham, when all had been tried, came to show,
Like the German flea-catcher, "anoder goot way."

And nothing's more simple than Farnham's receipt;--
"Catch your Catholic, first--soak him well in _poteen_,
"Add _salary_ sauce,[3] and the thing is complete.
"You may serve up your Protestant smoking and clean."

"Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!"
Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow[4]
Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery
Opened their bills and re-echoed "Wo! wo!"

[1] Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Chester on the subject of the
New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced "Wo! Wo! Wo!"
pretty abundantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress.

[2] The inextenguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare.

[3] "We understand that several applications have lately been made to the
Protestant clergymen of this town by fellows, inquiring 'What are they
giving a head for converts?'"--_Wexford Post_.

[4] Of the rook species--_Corvus frugilegus_, i.e. a great consumer of
corn.

TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.

"If in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil
advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as
we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common
decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive
contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not
sneer at the name of _Fot_, or laugh at the imputed divinity
of _Visthnou_."--_Courier, Tuesday. Jan_. 16.

1827.

Come take my advice, never trouble your cranium,
When "civil advantages" are to be gained,
What god or what goddess may help to obtain you 'em,
Hindoo or Chinese, so they're only obtained.

In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular)
All the good things to good hypocrites fall;
And he who in swallowing creeds is particular,
Soon will have nothing to swallow at all.

Oh place me where _Fo_ (or, as some call him, _Fot_)
Is the god from whom "civil advantages" flow,
And you'll find, if there's anything snug to be got,
I shall soon be on excellent terms with old _Fo_.

Or were I where _Vishnu_, that four-handed god,
Is the quadruple giver of pensions and places,
I own I should feel it unchristian and odd
Not to find myself also in _Vishnu's_ good graces.

For among all the gods that humanely attend
To our wants in this planet, the gods to _my_ wishes
Are those that, like _Vishnu_ and others, descend
In the form so attractive, of loaves and of fishes![1]

So take my advice--for if even the devil
Should tempt men again as an idol to try him,
'Twere best for us Tories even then to be civil,
As nobody doubts we should get something by him.

[1] Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) "a pisciform god,"--his first
Avatar being in the shape of a fish.

ENIGMA.

_monstrum nulla virtute_ redemptum.

Come, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
And tell me what my name may be.
I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old,
And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;--
Tho' a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),
I have, every year since, been out-growing my clothes:
Till at last such a corpulent giant I stand,
That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit,
It would take every morsel of _scrip_ in the land
But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot.
Hence they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature,
To cover me nothing but _rags_ will supply;
And the doctors declare that in due course of nature
About the year 30 in rags I shall die.
Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around,
An object of _interest_ most painful to all;
In the warehouse, the cottage, the place I'm found,
Holding citizen, peasant, and king in nay thrall.
Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree,
Come tell me what my name may be.

When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book,
Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw,
O'er his shoulders with large cipher eyeballs I look,
And down drops the pen from his paralyzed paw!
When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo,
And expects thro' _another_ to caper and prank it,
You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out "Boo!"
How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket.
When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall
His cup, full of gout, to the Gaul's overthrow,
Lo, "_Eight Hundred Millions_" I write on the wall,
And the cup falls to earth and--the gout to his toe!
But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram
My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's acres,
And knowing who made me the thing that I am,
Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers.
Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
And tell, if thou know'st, who _I_ may be.

DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS.

BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN.

_"vox clamantis in deserto."_

1827.

Said Malthus one day to a clown
Lying stretched on the beach in the sun,--
"What's the number of souls in this town?"--
"The number! Lord bless you, there's none.

"We have nothing but _dabs_ in this place,
"Of them a great plenty there are;--
But the _soles_, please your reverence and grace,
"Are all t'other side of the bar."

And so 'tis in London just now,
Not a soul to be seen up or down;--
Of _dabs_? a great glut, I allow,
But your _soles_, every one, out of town.

East or west nothing wondrous or new,
No courtship or scandal worth knowing;
Mrs. B---, and a Mermaid[1] or two,
Are the only loose fish that are going.

Ah, where is that dear house of Peers
That some weeks ago kept us merry?
Where, Eldon, art thou with thy tears?
And thou with thy sense, Londonderry?

Wise Marquis, how much the Lord Mayor,
In the dog-days, with _thee_ must be puzzled!--
It being his task to take care
That such animals shan't go unmuzzled.

Thou too whose political toils
Are so worthy a captain of horse--
Whose amendments[2] (like honest Sir Boyle's)
Are "_amendments_, that make matters _worse_;"[3]

Great Chieftain, who takest such pains
To prove--what is granted, _nem_. _con_.--
With how moderate a portion of brains
Some heroes contrive to get on.

And thou too my Redesdale, ah! where
Is the peer with a star at his button,
Whose _quarters_ could ever compare
With Redesdale's five quarters of mutton?[4]

Why, why have ye taken your flight,
Ye diverting and dignified crew?
How ill do three farces a night,
At the Haymarket, pay us for you!

For what is Bombastes to thee,
My Ellenbro', when thou look'st big
Or where's the burletta can be
Like Lauderdale's wit and his wig?

I doubt if even Griffinhoof[5] could
(Tho' Griffin's a comical lad)
Invent any joke half so good
As that precious one, "This is too bad!"

Then come again, come again Spring!
Oh haste thee, with Fun in thy train;
And--of all things the funniest--bring
These exalted Grimaldis again!

[1] One of the shows of London.

[2] More particularly his Grace's celebrated amendment to the Corn Bill:
for which, and the circumstances connected with it, see Annual Register
for A. D. 1827.

[3] From a speech of Sir Boyle Roche's, in the Irish House of Commons.

[4] The learning his Lordship displayed on the subject of the butcher's
"fifth quarter" of mutton will not speedily be forgotten.

[5] The _nom de guerre_ under which Colman has written some of his
best farces.

THE "LIVING DOG" AND "THE DEAD LION."

1828.

Next week will be published (as "Lives" are the rage)
The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange,
Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in the cage
Of the late noble Lion at Exeter 'Change.

Tho' the dog is a dog of the kind they call "sad,"
'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends;
And few dogs have such opportunities had
Of knowing how Lions behave--among friends;

How that animal eats, how he snores, how he drinks,
Is all noted down by this Boswell so small;
And 'tis plain from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks
That the Lion was no such great things after all.

Tho' he roared pretty well--this the puppy allows--
It was all, he says, borrowed--all second-hand roar;
And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows
To the loftiest war-note the Lion could pour.

'Tis indeed as good fun as a _Cynic_ could ask,
To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits
Takes gravely the Lord of the Forest to task,
And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits.

Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case)
With sops every day from the Lion's own pan,
He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcass.
And does all a dog so diminutive can.

However, the book's a good book, being rich in
Examples and warnings to lions high-bred,
How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen,
Who'll feed on them living and foul them when dead.

T. PIDCOCK

_Exeter 'Change_,

ODE TO DON MIGUEL.

Et tu, _Brute_!

1828.[1]

What! Miguel, _not_ patriotic! oh, fy!
After so much good teaching 'tis quite a _take-in_, Sir;
First schooled as you were under Metternich's eye,
And then (as young misses say) "finisht" at Windsor![2]

I ne'er in my life knew a case that was harder;--
Such feasts as you had when you made us a call!
Three courses each day from his Majesty's larder,--
And now to turn absolute Don after all!!

Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter
Of each thing they _write_ suit the way that they _dine_,
Roast sirloin for Epic, broiled devils for Satire,
And hotchpotch and _trifle_ for rhymes such as mine.

That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt;--
Great Despots on _bouilli_ served up _a la Russe_,[3]
Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout,
And your Viceroy of Hanover always on _goose_.

_Some_ Dons too have fancied (tho' this may be fable)
A dish rather dear, if in cooking they blunder it;--
Not content with the common _hot_ meat _on_ a table,
They're partial (eh, Mig?) to a dish of _cold under_ it![4]

No wonder a Don of such appetites found
Even Windsor's collations plebeianly plain;
Where the dishes most _high_ that my Lady sends round
Are here _Maintenon_ cutlets and soup _a la Reine_.

Alas! that a youth with such charming beginnings,
Should sink all at once to so sad a conclusion,
And what is still worse, throw the losings and winnings
Of worthies on 'Change into so much confusion!

The Bulls, in hysterics--the Bears just as bad--
The few men who _have_, and the many who've _not_ tick,
All shockt to find out that that promising lad,
Prince Metternich's pupil, is--_not_ patriotic!

[1] At the commencement of this year, the designs of Don Miguel and his
partisans against the constitution established by his brother had begun
more openly to declare themselves.

[2] Don Miguel had paid a visit to the English court at the close of the
year 1827.

[3] Dressed with a pint of the strongest spirits--a favorite dish of the
Great Frederick of Prussia, and which he persevered in eating even on his
death-bed, much to the horror of his physician Zimmerman.

[4] This quiet case of murder, with all its particulars--the hiding the
body under the dinner-table, etc.--is, no doubt, well known to the reader.

THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT OF IRELAND.

1828.

Oft have I seen, in gay, equestrian pride,
Some well-rouged youth round Astley's Circus ride
Two stately steeds--standing, with graceful straddle,
Like him of Rhodes, with foot on either saddle,
While to soft tunes--some jigs and some _andantes_--
He steers around his light-paced Rosinantes.

So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant,
That horseman bold, Lord Anglesea, at present;--
_Papist_ and _Protestant_ the coursers twain,
That lend their necks to his impartial rein,
And round the ring--each honored, as they go,
With equal pressure from his gracious toe--

To the old medley tune, half "Patrick's Day"
And half "Boyne Water," take their cantering way,
While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks
His long-lasht whip to cheer the doubtful hacks.
Ah, ticklish trial of equestrian art!
How blest, if neither steed would bolt or start;--
If _Protestant's_ old restive tricks were gone,
And _Papist's_ winkers could be still kept on!
But no, false hopes--not even the great Ducrow
'Twixt two such steeds could 'scape an overthrow:
If _solar_ hacks played Phaeton a trick,
What hope, alas, from hackneys _lunatic_?