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King Crack and his Idols 187

And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack !

Till his people, disdaining to worship such things,
Cried aloud, one and all, 'Come, your Godships

must pack

You will not do for us, though you may do for

Then, trampling the gross Idols under their feet,
They sent Crack a petition, beginning 'Great

Csesar !
We are willing to worship, but only entreat

That you'll find us some decenter Godheads than
these are.'

' I'll try,' says King Crack then they furnish'd him


Of better-shaped Gods, but he sent them all back ;
Some were chisell'd too fine, some had heads 'stead

of noddles,
In short, they were all much too godlike for Crack !

So he took to his darling old Idols again,

And, just mending their legs, and new bronzing

their faces
In open defiance of Gods and of men,

Set the monsters up grinning once more in their
places !

1 88 Thomas Moore



IN the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,
Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend ;

We forgot in that hour how the statesman had erred,
And wept, for the husband, the father and friend.

Oh ! proud was the meed his integrity won,

And generous indeed were the tears that we shed,

When in grief we forgot alt the ill he had done,
And, though wronged by him living, bewailed him
when dead.

Even now, if one harsher emotion intrude,

Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state

Had known what he was, and, content to be good,
Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be great.

So, left through their own little orbit to move,

His years might have rolled inoffensive away ;
His children might still have been blessed with his


And England would ne'er have been cursed with
his sway.

The Consultation 189


' When they do agree, their unanimity is wonderful.' The Critic.

Scene discovers DR. WHIG and DR. TORY in consulta-
tion. Patient on the floor between them.

DR. WHIG. This wild Irish patient does pester

me so,
That what to do with him, I'm curst if I know ;

I've promised him anodynes

DR. TORY. Anodynes ! Stuff.

Tie him down gag him well he'll be tranquil

That's my mode of practice.

DR. WHIG. True, quite in your line,

But unluckily not much, till lately, in mine.

Tis so painful

DR. TORY. Pooh, nonsense ask Ude how he


When, for Epicure feasts, he prepares his live eels,
By flinging them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire,
And letting them wriggle on there till they tire.
He, too, says ' 'tis painful ' ' quite makes his heart

bleed '
But 'your eels are a vile, oleaginous breed.'

igo Thomas Moore

He would fain use them gently, but Cookery says


And in short eels were born to be treated just so.
'Tis the same with these Irish, who're odder fish


Your tender Whig heart shrinks from using them ill ;
I, myself, in my youth, ere I came to get wise,
Used, at some operations, to blush to the eyes ;
But, in fact, my dear brother, if I may make bold
To style you, as Peachum did Lockit of old,
We, Doctors, must act with the firmness of Ude,
And, indifferent like him, so the fish is but stew'd,
Must torture live Pats for the general good.

[Here patient groans and kicks a little.

DR. WHIG. But what, if one's patient's so devilish

That he won't be thus tortur'd ?

DR. TORY. Coerce, sir, coerce.

You're a juvenile performer, but once you begin,
You can't think how fast you may train your hand in :
And (smiling) who knows but old Tory may take to

the shelf,
With the comforting thought that, in place and in


He's succeeded by one just as bad as himself?
DR. WHIG (looking flattered). Why, to tell you the
truth, I've a small matter here,

Paddy's Metamorphosis 191

Which you help'd me to make for my patient last

[Goes to cupboard and brings out a strait waist-
coat and gag.

And such rest I've enjoyed from his raving since


That I have made up my mind he shall wear it again.
DR. TORY (embracing him). Oh, charming ! My

dear Doctor Whig, you're a treasure.
Next to torturing myself, to help you is a pleasure.

[Assisting DR. WHIG.

Give me leave I've some practice in these mad

machines ;

There tighter the gag in the mouth, by all means.
Delightful ! all's snug not a squeak need you fear,
You may now put your anodynes off till next year.

[Scene closes.


ABOUT fifty years since, in the days of our daddies,
That plan was commenc'd which the wise now

Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies,
As good raw materials for settlers^ abroad.

192 Thomas Moore

Some West Indian island, whose name I forget,
Was the region then chosen for this scheme so
romantic ;

And such the success the first colony met,

That a second, soon after, set sail o'er th' Atlantic.

Behold them now safe at the long-look'd for shore,
Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might


And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,
They had sorrow'd to lose, but would soon again

And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there

'Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet


While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name
Thus hail'd by black devils, who caper 'd for joy !

Can it possibly be ? half amazement half doubt,
Pat listens again rubs his eyes and looks steady ;

Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out,
1 Good Lord ! only think black and curly already ! '

Deceiv'd by that well-mimick'd brogue in his ears,
Pat read his own doom in these wool -headed

The Song of the Box 193

And thought, what a climate, in less than two years,
To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers !


'Tis thus, but alas ! by a marvel more true

Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories,

Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two,
By a lusus natures, all turn into Tories.

And thus, when I hear them * strong measures '

Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get

I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes,

' Good Lord ! only think, black and curly
already ! '


LET History boast of her Romans and Spartans,
And tell how they stood against tyranny's shocks ;

They were all, I confess, in my eye, Betty Martins,
Compared to George Gr te and his wonderful

194 Thomas Moore

Ask, where Liberty now has her seat ? Oh, it isn't
By Delaware's banks or on Switzerland's rocks ;

Like an imp in some conjuror's bottle imprison'd,
She's slily shut up in Gr- te's wonderful Box.

How snug ! 'stead of floating through ether's do-

Blown this way and that, by the * populi vox,'
To fold thus in silence her sinecure pinions,

And go fast asleep in Gr te's wonderful Box.

Time was, when free speech was the life-breath of

So thought once the Seldens, the Hampdens, the

Lockes ;
But mute be our troops, when to ambush we lead


For ' Mum ' is the word with us Knights of the

Pure, exquisite Box ! no corruption can soil it ;

There's Otto of Rose, in each breath it unlocks ;
While Gr te is the ' Betty,' that serves at the toilet,

And breathes all Arabia around from his Box.

'Tis a singular tact, that the fam'd Hugo Grotius
(A namesake of Gr te's being both of Dutch

The Song of the Box 195

Like Gr te, too, a genius profound as precocious,
Was also, like him, much renown'd for a Box ;

An immortal old clothes -box in which the great

When suffering, in prison, for views heterodox,
Was pack'd up incog., spite of gaolers ferocious,

And sent to his wife, carriage free, in a Box !

But the fame of old Hugo now rests on the shelf,
Since a rival hath ris'n that all parallel mocks ;

That Grotius ingloriously sav'd but himself,

While ours saves the whole British realm by a

And oh, when at last, even this greatest of Gr tes
Must bend to the Power that at every door knocks,

May he drop in the urn like his own * silent votes/
And the tomb of his rest be a large Ballot-Box.

While long at his shrine, both from country and city,
Shall pilgrims triennially gather in flocks,

And sing, while they whimper, th' appropriate ditty,
* Oh breathe not his name^ let it sleep in the Box.'

196 Thomas Moore


HALF Whig, half Tory, like those midway things,
'Twixt bird and beast, that by mistake have wings ;
A mongrel Statesman, 'twixt two factions nurst,
Who, of the faults of each, combines the worst
The Tory's loftiness, the Whigling's sneer,
The leveller's rashness, and the bigot's fear ;
The thirst for meddling, restless still to show
How Freedom's clock, repair'd by Whigs, will go ;
Th' alarm when others, more sincere than they,
Advance the hands to the true time of day.

By Mother Church, high-fed and haughty dame,
The boy was dandled, in his dawn of fame ;
Listening, she smil'd, and bless'd the flippant tongue
On which the fate of unborn tithe-pigs hung.
Ah, who shall paint the grandam's grim dismay,
When loose Reform entic'd her boy away ;
When shock'd she heard him ape the rabble's tone,
And, in Old Sarum's fate, foredoom her own !
Groaning she cried, while tears roll'd down her

'Poor glib-tongued youth, he means not what he


A Character 197

Like oil at top, these Whig professions flow,

But, pure as lymph, runs Toryism below.

Alas, that tongue should start thus in the race,

Ere mind can reach and regulate its pace !

For, once outstripped by tongue, poor, lagging mind,

At every step, still further limps behind.

But, bless the boy ! whate'er his wandering be,

Still turns his heart to Toryism and me.

Like those odd shapes, portray'd in Dante's lay,

With heads fix'd on, the wrong and backward way,

His feet and eyes pursue a diverse track,

While those march onward, these look fondly back. 7

And well she knew him well foresaw the day,

Which now hath come, when snatch'd from Whigs


The self-same changeling drops the mask he wore,
And rests, restored in granny's arms once more.

But whither now, mixt brood of modern light
And ancient darkness, can'st thou bend thy flight ?
Tried by both factions, and to neither true,
Fear'd by the old school, laugh'd at by the new ;
For this too feeble, and for that too rash,
This wanting more of fire, that less of flash ;
Lone shalt thou stand, in isolation cold,
Betwixt two worlds, the new one and the old,
A small and ' vex'd Bermoothes,' which the eye
Of venturous seaman sees and passes by.

198 Thomas Moore


DEAR John, as I know, like our brother of London,
You've sipp'd of all knowledge, both sacred and


No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read
What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said
That he ne'er saw two rev'rend soothsayers meet,
Let it be where it might, in the shrine or the street,
Without wondering the rogues, 'mid their solemn


Didn't burst out a laughing in each other's faces.
What Cato then meant, though 'tis so long ago,
Even we in the present times pretty well know ;
Having soothsayers also, who sooth to say, John
Are no better in some points than those of days


And a pair of whom meeting (between you and me),
Might laugh in their sleeves, too all lawn though

they be.

But this, by the way my intention being chiefly
In this, my first letter, to hint to you briefly,
That, seeing how fond you of Tuum must be,
While Meum 's at all times the main point with me,
We scarce could do better than form an alliance,

Epistle from Henry of Exeter 199

To set these sad Anti-Church times at defiance :
You, John, recollect, being still to embark,
With no share in the firm but your title and mark ;
Or ev'n should you feel in your grandeur inclin'd
To call yourself Pope, why, I shouldn't much mind ;
Why my church as usual holds fast by your Tuum,
And every one else's, to make it all Suum.

Thus allied, I've no doubt we shall nicely agree,
As no twins can be liker, in most points than we ;
Both, specimens choice of that mix'd sort of beast,
(See Rev. xiii. i) a political priest;
Both meddlesome chargers, both brisk pamphleteers,
Ripe and ready for all that sets men by the ears ;
And I, at least one, who would scorn to stick longer
By any giv'n cause than I found it the stronger,
And who, smooth on my turnings as if on a swivel,
When the tone ecclesiastic won't do, try the civil.

In short (not to bore you, injure divino)

We've the same cause in common, John all but the

rhino ;

And that vulgar surplus, whate'er it may be,
As you're not us'd to cash, John, you'd best leave to


And so, without form as the postman won't tarry
I'm, dear Jack of Tuam,



Thomas Moore



I'M quite of your mind; though these Pats cry


That they've got ' too much Church,' 'tis all non-
sense and stuff;

For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vow'd
That even too much of it's not quite enough.

Ay, dose them with parsons, 'twill cure all their

ills ;

Copy Morison's mode when from pill -box un-
daunted he

Pours through his patient his black-coated pills,
Nor cares what their quality, so there's but

I verily think, 'twould be worth England's while
To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether

'Twould not be as well to give up the green isle
To the care, wear and tear of the Church alto-

Reflections 201

The Irish are well us'd to treatment so pleasant ;
The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plan-

And now, if King William would make them a

To Mother chaste lady ye Saints, just imagine it !

Chief Sees., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders in chief,
Might then be all cull'd from th' episcopal benches;

While colonels in black would afford some relief
From the hue that reminds one of th' old scarlet

Think how fierce at a charge (being practised therein)
The Right Reverend Brigadier Ph 11 tts would

slash on !
How General Bl mf d, through thick and through


To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would
dash on !

For, in one point alone do the amply fed race
Of bishops to beggars similitude bear

That, set them on horseback, in full steeple chase,
And they'll ride, if not pull'd up in time you
know where.

202 Thomas Moore

But, bless you, in Ireland, that matters not much,
Where affairs have for centuries gone the same


And a good staunch Conservative's system is such
That he'd back even Beelzebub's long- founded

I am therefore, dear Quarterly, quite of your mind ;
Church, Church, in all shapes, into Erin let's pour ;

And the more she rejecteth our med'cine so kind,
The more let's repeat it ' Black dose, as before.'

Let Coercion, that peace-maker, go hand in hand
With demure-ey'd Conversion, fit sister and brother ;

And, covering with prisons and churches the land,
All that won't go to one, we'll put into the other.

For the sole, leading maxim of us who're inclin'd
To rule over Ireland, not well, but religiously,

Is to treat her like ladies, who've just been confin'd,
(Or who ought to be so) and to church her pro-

Religion and Trade 203


{ Sir Robert Peel believed it was necessary to originate all re-
specting religion and trade in a Committee of the House.'
Church Extension, May 22, 1830.

SAY, who was the wag, indecorously witty,
Who, first in a statute, this libel convey'd ;

And thus slily referr'd to the self-same committee,
As matters congenial, Religion and Trade ?

Oh surely, my Ph Up ts, 'twas thou did the deed ;

For none but thyself, or some pluralist brother,
Accustom'd to mix up the craft with the creed,

Could bring such a pair thus to twin with each

And yet, when one thinks of times present and gone,
One is forc'd to confess, on maturer reflection,

That 'tisn't in the eyes of committees alone

That the shrine and the shop seem to have some

Not to mention those monarchs of Asia's fair land,
Whose civil list all is in * god-money ' paid ;

And where the whole people by royal command,
Buy their gods at the government mart ready
made ;

204 Thomas Moore

There was also (as mention'd, in rhyme and in prose,


Gold heap'd, throughout Egypt, on every shrine,
To make rings for right reverend crocodiles' noses
Just such as, my Ph lip ts, would look well in

But one needn't fly off, in this erudite mood ;

And 'tis clear, without going to regions so sunny,
That priests love to do the least possible good,

For the largest most possible quantum of money.

' Of him,' saith the text, e unto whom much is given,
Of him much, in turn, will be also requir'd : '

' By me] quoth the sleek and obese man of heaven
'Give as much as you will more will still be

More money ! more churches ! oh Nimrod, hadst


'Stead of Tower-extension, some shorter way gone
Hadst thou known by what methods we mount to

heaven now,

And tried Church- extension, the feat had been


(What has been said of Moore may be repeated
almost verbatim of Praed, who, with a sufficient differ-
ence of education, circumstances, and temperament,
employed the same gifts on (for the most par f) the other
side. As Catholic emancipation and coercion in Ireland
were Moore's great themes, so reform and the vagaries
of the early reformed parliaments were Praed? s.}



OLD Lady of Chancery, why do you tarry

So long on the throne of your vanishing reign ?

The neighbourhood titters whene'er you miscarry,
And hints that your labours are labours in vain.

There is one thing at least, which your closest

Will hardly discover a reason to doubt,

206 Winthrop Mackivorth Praed

That be Candles and Statesmen how wicked soever,
All Candles and Statesmen at last must go out.

When girls in their summer begin to grow willing,
Their grandmothers think about making their wills ;

And oh ! you had better have done with your billing,
Before your old lovers say ' no/ to your bills.

'Tis all very pretty, when love or defiance

Is breathed from the lips of a younger coquette ;

When Peel is seduced by the Holy Alliance,
Or Robinson flirts with the National Debt ;

But it is not for you, while the grave gapes before you,
To be scaring gilt stars with those wrinkles of awe;

Giving garter and ribbons to fools who adore you,
And stealing silk gowns from your daughters-in-law.

Sweet Gifford, I grant, as your tenderness taught her,
May flaunt in rich suits, and be kind to Appeals ;

And dabble her scull in the dirtiest water,

Like a Greenlander, all for the love of the Seals ;

But you put your salary up in your full sack,
And go to your grave with a gentle decline ;

Take a nightcap of woollen instead of a woolsack,
And leave to George Canning his roses and wine.

Epitaph on King of the Sandzvich Islands 207



BENEATH this marble, mud, or moss,

Whiche'er his subjects shall determine,
Entombed in eulogies and dross,

The Island King is food for vermin :
Preserved by scribblers, and by salt,

From Lethe, and sepulchral vapours,
His body fills his fathers' vault,

His character, the daily papers.

Well was he framed for royal seat ;

Kind to the meanest of his creatures,
With tender heart, and tender feet,

And open purse, and open features;
The ladies say, who laid him out,

And earned thereby the usual pensions,
They never wreathed a shroud about

A corpse of more genteel dimensions.

He warred with half a score of foes,
And shone, by proxy in the quarrel ;

208 Winthrop Mackworth Praed

Enjoyed hard fights, and soft repose,

And deathless debt, and deathless laurel :

His enemies were scalped and flayed,
Where'er his soldiers were victorious ;

And widows wept, and paupers paid,
To make their Sovereign Ruler glorious.

And days were set apart for thanks,

And prayers were said by pious readers,
And land was lavished on the ranks,

And la'nd was lavished on their leaders ;
Events are writ by History's pen,

And causes are too much to care for ;
Fame talks about the where and when,

While Folly asks the why and wherefore.

In peace he was immensely gay,

And indefatigably busy ;
Preparing gew-gaws every day,

And shows to make his subjects dizzy ;
And hearing the reports of guns,

And signing the reports of gaolers ;
And making up recipes for buns,

And patterns for the army tailors ;

And building carriages, and boats,

And streets, and chapels, and pavilions ;

And regulating all the coats,

And all the principles of millions ;

Epitaph on King of the Sandwich Islands 209

And drinking homilies and gin,
And chewing pork and adulation j

And looking backwards upon sin,
And looking forwards to salvation.

The people in his happy reign,

Were blest beyond all other nations,
Unharmed by foreign axe of chain,

Unhealed by civil innovations :
They served the usual logs and stones,

With all the usual rights and terrors ;
And swallowed all their fathers 7 bones,

And swallowed all their fathers 3 errors.

When a fierce mob with clubs and knives,

Declared that nothing would content them,
But that their representatives

Should actually represent them,
He interposed the proper checks,

By sending 'troops with drums and banners,
Cut short their speeches, and their necks,

And broke their heads, to mend their manners.

And when Dissension flung her stain
Upon the light of Hymen's altar,

And Destiny made Cupid's chain
As galling as the hangman's halter,

Winthrop Mackworth Praed

He passed a most domestic life,
By many mistresses befriended :

And did not put away his wife,

For fear the Priests should be offended.

And thus at last he sunk to rest

Amid the blessings of his people ;
And sighs were heaved from every breast,

And bells wore tolled from every steeple ;
And loud was every public throng,

His brilliant character adorning ;
And poets raised a mourning song,

And clothiers raised the price of mourning.

His funeral was very grand,

Followed by many robes and maces,
And all the great ones of the land,

Struggling, as heretofore, for places.
And every loyal Minister

Was there with signs of purse-felt sorrow,
Save Pozzy, his Lord Chancellor,

Who promised to attend to-morrow.

Peace to his dust ! his fostering care -i

By grateful hearts shall long be cherished ;

And all his subjects shall declare,

They lost a grinder, when he perished.

Waterloo 211

They who shall look upon the lead,

In which a people's love hath shrined him,

Shall say, when all the worst is said,
Perhaps he leaves a worse behind him !


' It was here that the French cavalry charged, and cut to pieces
the English squares.' Narrative of a French Tourist.

' Is it true, think you ? ' Winter's Tale.

AY, here such valorous deeds were done

As ne'er were done before ;
Ay, here the reddest wreath was won

That ever Gallia wore :
Since Ariosto's wondrous knight

Made all the Pagans dance,
There never dawned a day so bright

As Waterloo's on France.

The trumpet poured its deafening sound-
Flags fluttered on the gale ;

212 Winthrop Mackworth Praed

And cannon roared, and heads flew round

As fast as summer hail :
The sabres flashed ; with rage and fear

The steeds began to prance ;
The English quaked from front to rear,

They never quake in France !


The cuirassiers rode in and out,

As fierce as wolves and bears ;
Twas grand to see them slash about

Among the English squares !
And then the Polish lancer came,

Careering with his lance ;
No wonder Britain blushed for shame,

And ran away from France.


The Duke of York was killed that day

The King was sadly scarred ;
Lord Eldon, as he ran away,

Was taken by the Guard.
Poor Wellington, with fifty Blues,

Escaped by some strange chance;
Henceforth, I think he'll hardly choose

To show himself in France.

Waterloo 213

So Buonaparte pitched his tent

That day in Grosvenor Place ;
And Ney rode straight to Parliament,

And broke the Speaker's mace.
( Vive 1'Empereur ' was said or sung,

From Peebles to Penzance;
The Mayor and Aldermen were hung,

Which made folks laugh in France.


They pulled the Tower of London down ;

They burned our wooden walls ;
They brought his Holiness to Town,

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