The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 267

Satires irritate--love-songs are found calorific; But smooth, female sonnets he deems a specific, And, if taken at bedtime, a sure soporific.

Among works of this kind, the most pleasing we know, Is a volume just published by Simpkins and Co., Where all such ingredients--the flowery, the sweet, And the gently narcotic--are mixt _per_ receipt, With a hand so judicious, we've no hesitation To say that--'bove all, for the young generation-- 'Tis an elegant, soothing and safe preparation.

_Nota bene_--for readers, whose object's _to sleep_, And who read, in their nightcaps, the publishers keep Good fire-proof binding, which comes very cheap.

ANECDOTE--FROM THE "COURT JOURNAL."

T' other night, at the Countess of ***'s rout, An amusing event was much whispered about.

It was said that Lord ---, at the Council, that day, Had, move than once, jumpt from his seat, like a rocket, And flown to a corner, where--heedless, they say, How the country's resources were squandered away-- He kept reading some papers he'd brought in his pocket.

Some thought them despatches from Spain or the Turk, Others swore they brought word we had lost the Mauritius; But it turned out 'twas only Miss Fudge's new work, Which his Lords.h.i.+p devoured with such zeal expeditious-- Messrs. Simpkins and Co., to avoid all delay, Having sent it in sheets, that his Lords.h.i.+p might say, He had distanced the whole reading world by a day!

[1] A day-coach of that name.

LETTER VIII.

FROM BOB FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN.

_Tuesday evening_,

I much regret, dear Reverend Sir, I could not come to * * * to meet you; But this curst gout won?t let me stir-- Even now I but by proxy greet you; As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is, Owes all to an amanuensis.

Most other scourges of disease Reduce men to _extremities_-- But gout won?t leave one even _these_.

From all my sister writes, I see That you and I will quite agree.

I'm a plain man who speak the truth, And trust you'll think me not uncivil, When I declare that from my youth I've wisht your country at the devil: Nor can I doubt indeed from all I've heard of your high patriot fame-- From every word your lips let fall-- That you most truly wish the same.

It plagues one's life out--thirty years Have I had dinning in my ears, "Ireland wants this and that and t'other,"

And to this hour one nothing hears But the same vile, eternal bother.

While, of those countless things she wanted, Thank G.o.d, but little has been granted, And even that little, if we're men And Britons, we'll have back again!

I really think that Catholic question Was what brought on my indigestion; And still each year, as Popery's curse Has gathered round us, I've got worse; Till even my pint of port a day Can?t keep the Pope and bile away.

And whereas, till the Catholic bill, I never wanted draught or pill, The settling of that cursed question Has quite _un_settled my digestion.

Look what has happened since--the Elect Of all the bores of every sect, The chosen triers of men's patience, From all the Three Denominations.

Let loose upon us;--even Quakers Turned into speechers and lawmakers, Who'll move no question, stiff-rumpt elves, Till first the Spirit moves themselves; And whose shrill Yeas and Nays, in chorus, Conquering our Ayes and Noes sonorous, Will soon to death's own slumber snore us.

Then, too, those Jews!--I really sicken To think of such abomination; Fellows, who won?t eat ham with chicken, To legislate for this great nation!-- Depend upon't, when once they've sway, With rich old Goldsmid at the head o' them, The Excise laws will be done away, And _Circ.u.mcise_ ones past instead o' them!

In short, dear sir, look where one will, Things all go on so devilish ill, That, 'pon my soul, I rather fear Our reverend Rector may be right, Who tells me the Millennium's near; Nay, swears he knows the very year, And regulates his leases by 't;-- Meaning their terms should end, no doubt, Before the world's own lease is out.

He thinks too that the whole thing's ended So much more soon than was intended, Purely to scourge those men of sin Who brought the accurst Reform Bill in.

However, let's not yet despair; Tho' Toryism's eclipst, at present.

And--like myself, in this old chair-- Sits in a state by no means pleasant; Feet crippled--hands, in luckless hour, Disabled of their grasping power; And all that rampant glee, which revelled In this world's sweets, be-dulled, be-deviled--

Yet, tho' condemned to frisk no more, And both in Chair of Penance set, There's something tells me, all's not o'er With Toryism or Bobby yet; That tho', between us, I allow We've not a leg to stand on now; Tho' curst Reform and _colchic.u.m_ Have made us both look deuced glum, Yet still, in spite of Grote and Gout, Again we'll s.h.i.+ne triumphant out!

Yes--back again shall come, egad, _Our_ turn for sport, my reverend lad.

And then, O'Mulligan--oh then, When mounted on our nags again, You, on your high-flown Rosinante, Bedizened out, like Show-Gallantee (Glitter great from substance scanty);-- While I, Bob Fudge, Esquire, shall ride Your faithful Sancho, by your side; Then--talk of tilts and tournaments!

Dam'me, we'll--

'Squire Fudge's clerk presents To Reverend Sir his compliments; Is grieved to say an accident Has just occurred which will prevent The Squire--tho' now a little better-- From finis.h.i.+ng this present letter.

Just when he'd got to "Dam'me, we'll"-- His Honor, full of martial zeal, Graspt at his crutch, but not being able To keep his balance or his hold, Tumbled, both self and crutch, and rolled, Like ball and bat, beneath the table.

All's safe--the table, chair and crutch;-- Nothing, thank G.o.d, is broken much, But the Squire's head, which in the fall Got b.u.mped considerably--that's all.

At this no great alarm we feel, As the Squire's head can bear a deal.

_Wednesday morning_

Squire much the same--head rather light-- Raved about "Barbers' Wigs" all night.

Our housekeeper, old Mrs. Griggs, Suspects that he meant "barbarous Whigs."

LETTER IX.

FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, TO HIS WIFE JUDY.

As it was but last week that I sint you a letther, You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about; And, throth, it's a letther myself would like betther, Could I manage to lave the contints of it out; For sure, if it makes even _me_ onaisy, Who takes things quiet, 'twill dhrive _you_ crazy.

Oh! Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to him!

That e'er I should come to've been sarvant-man to him, Or so far demane the O'Branigan blood, And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not even the Flood Was able to wash away clane from the earth)[1]

As to sarve one whose name, of mere yestherday's birth, Can no more to a great O, _before_ it, purtend, Than mine can to wear a great Q at its _end_.

But that's now all over--last night I gev warnin,'

And, masth'r as he is, will discharge him this mornin'.

The thief of the world!--but it's no use balraggin'[2]-- All I know is, I'd fifty times rather be draggin'

Ould ladies up hill to the ind of my days,

Than with Murthagh to rowl in a chaise, at my aise, And be forced to discind thro' the same dirty ways.

Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last showed his phiz, I'd have known what a quare sort of monsthsr he is; For, by gor, 'twas at Exether Change, sure enough, That himself and his other wild Irish showed off; And it's pity, so 'tis, that they hadn't got no man Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their showman-- Sayin', "Ladies and Gintlemen, plaze to take notice, "How shlim and how shleek this black animal's coat is; "All by raison, we're towld, that the natur o' the baste "Is to change its coat _once_ in its lifetime, _at laste_; "And such objiks, in _our_ counthry, not bein' common ones, "Are _bought up_, as this was, by way of Fine Nomenons.

"In regard of its _name_--why, in throth, I'm consarned "To differ on this point so much with the Larned, "Who call it a '_Morthimer_,' whereas the craythur "Is plainly a 'Murthagh,' by name and by nathur."

This is how I'd have towld them the righst of it all.

Had _I_ been their showman at Exether Hail-- Not forgettin' that other great wondher of Airin (Of the owld bitther breed which they call Prosbetairin), The famed Daddy c.o.ke--who, by gor, I'd have shown 'em As proof how such bastes may be tamed, when you've thrown 'em A good frindly sop of the rale _Raigin Donem_.[3]

But throth, I've no laisure just now, Judy dear, For anything, barrin' our own doings here, And the cursin' and dammin' and thund'rin like mad, We Papists, G.o.d help us, from Murthagh have had.

He says we're all murtherers--divil a bit less-- And that even our priests, when we go to confess, Give us lessons in murthering and wish us success!

When axed how he daared, by tongue or by pen, To belie, in this way, seven millions of men, Faith, he said'twas all towld him by Docthor Den![4]

"And who the divil's _he_?" was the question that flew From Chrishtian to Chrishtian--but not a sowl knew.