The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore

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WHAT, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes,
And, better still, a man of guineas,
To talk of "patrons," in these times,

When authors thrive, like spinning jennies, And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page Alike may laugh at patronage!

No, no-those times are pass'd away,
When, doom'd in upper floors to star it,
The bard inscrib'd to lords his lay,-
Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.
No more he begs, with air dependent,
His "little bark may sail attendant "
Under some lordly skipper's steerage;
But launch'd triumphant in the Row,
Or ta'en by Murray's self in tow,

Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail Is whisk'd from England by the gale,

1 Some parts of the Provinciales may be said to be of the highest order of jeux d'esprit or, squibs.

2 This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well con

But bears on board some authors, shipp'd
For foreign shores, all well-equipp'd
With proper book-making machinery,
To sketch the morals, manners, scenery,
Of all such lands as they shall see,
Or not see, as the case may be :-
It being enjoin'd on all who go
To study first Miss M********,
And learn from her the method true,
To do one's books-and readers, too.
For so this nymph of nous and nerve
Teaches mankind "How to Observe;"
And, lest mankind at all should swerve,
Teaches them also "What to Observe."

No, no, my friend-it can't be blink'd-
The Patron is a race extinct;
As dead as any Megatherion
That ever Buckland built a theory on.
Instead of bartering, in this age,

Our praise for pence and patronage,
We authors, now, more prosperous elves,
Have learn'd to patronise ourselves;
And since all-potent Puffing's made
The life of song, the soul of trade,
More frugal of our praises grown,
We puff no merits but our own.

Unlike those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really raise the wind;
And since they've fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best trade-winds going.
'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy
As her old haunts near Aganippe,
The Muse, now, taking to the till,
Has open'd shop on Ludgate Hill
(Far handier than the Hill of Pindus,
As seen from bard's back attic windows);
And swallowing there without cessation
Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration,
Touches the notes for each new theme,
While still fresh "change comes o'er her dream."
What Steam is on the deep-and more--
Is the vast power of Puff on shore;
Which jumps to glory's future tenses
Before the present even commences;
And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us
Before the world has read one line of us.

In old times, when the God of Song
Drove his own two-horse team along,

trived for your Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and N. E. you had turned about," &c. &c.- SYDNEY SMITH'S Last Letter to the Bishop of London.

Carrying inside a bard or two,
Book'd for posterity "all through;”—
Their luggage, a few close-pack'd rhymes,
(Like yours, my friend,) for after-times-
So slow the pull to Fame's abode,
That folks oft slept upon the road;-
And Homer's self, sometimes, they say,
Took to his nightcap on the way.

Ye Gods! how different is the story
With our new galloping sons of glory,

Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,
Dash to posterity in no time!
Raise but one general blast of Puff
To start your author-that's enough.
In vain the critics, set to watch him,
Try at the starting post to catch him :
He's off-the puffers carry it hollow—
The critics, if they please, may follow.
Ere they've laid down their first positions,
He's fairly blown through six editions!
In vain doth Edinburgh dispense
Her blue and yellow pestilence
(That plague so awful in my time
To young and touchy sons of rhyme) —
The Quarterly, at three months' date,
To catch the' Unread One, comes too late;
And nonsense, litter'd in a hurry,
Becomes "immortal." spite of Murray.

Old Socrates, that pink of sages,
Kept a pet demon, on board wages
To go about with him incog.,
And sometimes give his wits a jog.
So L-nd-st, in our day, we know,
Keeps fresh relays of imps below,
To forward, from that nameless spot,
His inspirations, hot and hot.

But, neat as are old L-nd-st's doings-
Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings-
Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,

I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks
With age's sourest politics;

The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall,
Both duly mix'd, and matchless all;
A compound nought in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!

Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,
Whene'er thou, witch-like, rid'st the storm,
Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee-
No livelier lackey could they find thee.
And, Goddess, as I'm well aware,
So mischief's done, you care not where,
I own, 'twill most my fancy tickle
In Paddyland to play the Pickle;
Having got credit for inventing

A new, brisk method of tormenting—
A way, they call the Stanley fashion,
Which puts all Ireland in a passion;
So neat it hits the mixture due

Of injury and insult too;
So legibly it bears upon't

The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.

Ireland, we're told, means land of Ire;
And why she's so, none need inquire,
Who sees her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord St-nl-y.
Already in the breeze I scent
The whiff of coming devilment;
Of strife, to me more stirring far
Than the' Opium or the Sulphur war,
Or any such drug ferments are.
Yes-sweeter to this Tory soul
Than all such pests, from pole to pole,
Is the rich, "swelter'd venom" got
By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;
And, thanks to practice on that land,

I stir it with a master-hand.

1 Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus. - HORAT.

"Swelter'd venom, sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot."

Again thou'lt see, when forth hath gone
The War-Church-cry, “On, Stanley, on!"
How Caravats and Shanavests

Shall swarm from out their mountain nests,
With all their merry moonlight brothers,
To whom the Church (step-dame to others)
Hath been the best of nursing mothers.
Again o'er Erin's rich domain

Shall Rockites and right reverends reign;
And both, exempt from vulgar toil,
Between them share that titheful soil;
Puzzling ambition which to climb at,
The post of Captain, or of Primate.

And so, long life to Church and Co.-
Hurrah for mischief! - here we go.

EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO
LORD L-NDH-T.

Like you, Reformation in Church and in State DEAR L-ndh-t,-you'll pardon my making thus Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate; If once these curst Ministers do as they like, All's o'er, my good Lord, with your wig and my

free,

But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we, Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,

pike,

And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth, Have both the same praiseworthy object, in pri- Just to show what such Captains and Chancellors

vate

Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,

Where Rock hath long reign'd, have one instant

were worth.

But we must not despair-even already Hope sees You're about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you,

of quiet,

her

To love more than meat, drink, or clothing-hot

water.

All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it,
Is simply, that you make the law and I break it;
And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two
Play'd so well into each other's hands as we do;
Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufac-

ture,

Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to frac

ture.

Not Birmingham's self-to her shame be it spoken

tioner ? No-merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner; E'er made things more neatly contriv'd to be The Courts having now, with true law erudition,

broken;

And hence, I confess, in this island religious,
The breakage of laws-and of heads is prodigious.

And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,— Though, of late, much I fear'd all our fun was gone by;

Put even Rebellion itself " in commission."
As seldom, in this way, I'm any man's debtor,
I'll just pay my shot, and then fold up this letter.

1 Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion. Chronicle.

In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks! If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment,

Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks!
Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres,
And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of
Peers!

CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.

but spares

Me and L-ndh-t, to look after Ireland's affairs,
We shall soon such a region of devilment make it,
That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it.

Even already-long life to such Big-wigs, say I,
For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die-
He has serv'd our right riotous cause by a speech
Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach; |
As it shows off both his and my merits alike,

LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ. 1 Both the swell of the wig, and the point of the pike;

To play, in such concert, the true double-base.

I had fear'd this old prop of my realm was beginning
To tire of his course of political sinning,
And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past,
Meant, by way of a change, to try virtue at last.
But I wrong'd the old boy, who as staunchly derides
All reform in himself as in most things besides;
And, by using two faces through life, all allow,
Has acquir'd face sufficient for any thing now.

In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe,
My Lord Harry" himself - who's the leader,
we know,

Of another red-hot Opposition, below

1 The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.

Mixes up, with a skill which one can't but admire,
The lawyer's cool craft with the' incendiary's fire,
And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner,
Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner!
Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die ;
Through the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it
fly;

Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle utter'd
By all Tipperary's wild echoes be mutter'd,

Till nought shall be heard, over hill, dale, or flood,
But "You're aliens in language, in creed, and in

blood;"

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND;

BEING A SEQUEL TO

"THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS."

PREFACE.

Poor "Pa" hath popp'd off-gone, as charity judges,
To some choice Elysium reserv'd for the Fudges;
And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations
From some much rever'd and much-palsied rela-
tions,

Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet, -
Age thirty, or thereabouts- -stature six feet,
And warranted godly-to make all complete.
Nota Bene- -a Churchman would suit, if he's high,
But Socinians or Catholics need not apply.

THE name of the country town, in England -
a well-known fashionable watering-place
which the events that gave rise to the following
correspondence occurred, is, for obvious reasons,
suppressed. The interest attached, however, to
the facts and personages of the story, render it
independent of all time and place; and when it is
recollected that the whole train of romantic cir-
cumstances so fully unfolded in these Letters has
passed during the short period which has now
elapsed since the great Meetings in Exeter Hall,
due credit will, it is hoped, be allowed to the Editor
for the rapidity with which he has brought the
details before the Public; while, at the same time, All
any errors that may have been the result of such
haste will, he trusts, with equal consideration, be
pardoned.

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND.

LETTER I.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD
-, CURATE OF
IN IRELAND.

WHO d'ye think we've got here?—quite reform'd
from the giddy,

What say you, Dick? doesn't this tempt your ambition?

The whole wealth of Fudge, that renown'd man of pith,

brought to the hammer, for Church competition,

[with.

Sole encumbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken thereThink, my boy, for a Curate how glorious a catch! While, instead of the thousands of souls you now

So much lack'd an old spinster to rid him from debt,

Or had cogenter reasons than mine to assail her Fantastic young thing, that once made such a With tender love-suit- - at the suit of his tailor.

noise

Why, the famous Miss Fudge-that delectable But thereby there hangs a soft secret, my friend,

Biddy,

Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,
In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs-
Such a thing as no rainbow hath colours to
paint;

Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,
And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

Which thus to your reverend breast I commend :
Miss Fudge hath a niece- such a creature! -with

eyes

Like those sparklers that peep out from summer-
night skies

At astronomers-royal, and laugh with delight
To see elderly gentlemen spying all night.

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