The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore

For, what do you think?-so delightful! next Having dropp'd the dear fellow a court'sy pro

year,

Oh, prepare, dearest girl, for the grand news

prepare

I'm to write in the Keepsake-yes, Kitty, my dear,
To write in the Keepsake, as sure as you're
there!!

Tother night, at a Ball, 'twas my fortunate chance
With a very nice elderly Dandy to dance,

Who, 'twas plain, from some hints which I now
and then caught,

found,

Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran;
And from what I could learn, do you know, dear
I've found

That he's quite a new species of literary man; One, whose task is-to what will not fashion ac custom us?

To edite live authors, as if they were posthumous.
For instance the plan, to be sure, is the oddest!—
If any young he or she author feels modest

Was the author of something-one couldn't tell In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher

what;

But his satisfied manner left no room to doubt

It was something that Colburn had lately brought

out.

Lends promptly a hand to the interesting blusher;
Indites a smooth Preface, brings merit to light,
Which else might, by accident, shrink out of
sight,

And, in short, renders readers and critics polite.

We conversed of belles-lettres through all the quad- My Aunt says-though scarce on such points one rille,

Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still;
Talk'd of Intellect's march-whether right 'twas

or wrong

And then settled the point in a bold en avant.

In the course of this talk 'twas that, having just
hinted

That I too had Poems which-long'd to be printed,
He protested, kind man! he had seen, at first sight,
I was actually born in the Keepsake to write.
"In the Annals of England let some," he said,
"shine,

"But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thine!
"Even now future Keepsakes seem brightly to rise,
“Throngh the vista of years as I gaze on those

eyes,

* All letter'd and press'd, and of large-paper size!" How unlike that Magan, who my genius would smother.

And how we true geniuses, find out each other!

This, and much more he said, with that fine frenzied glance

One so rarely now sees, as we slid through the
dance;

Till between us 'twas finally fix'd that, next year,
In this requisite task I my pen should engage;
And, at parting, he stoop'd down and lisp'd in my

ear

can credit her

He was Lady Jane Thingumbob's last novel's editor.

"Tis certain the fashion's but newly invented;

And, quick as the change of all things and all

names is,

Who knows, but, as authors, like girls, are presented,
We, girls, may be edited soon at St. James's?

I must now close my letter-there's Aunt, in full screech,

Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite
preach.

God forgive me, I'm not much inclined, I must say,
To go and sit still to be preach'd at, to-day.
And, besides 'twill be all against dancing, no

doubt,

Which my poor Aunt abhors, with such hatred devout,

That, so far from presenting young nymphs with a
head,

For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said,
She'd wish their own heads in the platter, instead.
There again-coming Ma'am !-I'll write more
if I can,
Before the post goes,

Your affectionate Fan.

Four o'clock.

These mystical words, which I could but just hear, Such a sermon!-though not about dancing, my

Ye gods, what a bliss to be paid for one's strains. As then I shall be an old maid, and 'twon't matter,

Once more, love, good-by-I've to make a new cap; But am now so dead tired with this horrid mishap Of the end of the world, that I must take a nap.

LETTER IV.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD

HE comes from Erin's speechful shore
Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er

With hot effusions-hot and weak;
Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,
He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms

To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.
Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,'
Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!
Journals reserved for realms of bliss,
Being much too good to sell in this.
Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,

Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;
And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,
Blow all your little penny trumpets.
He comes, the reverend man, to tell

To all who still the Church's part take,

Tales of parsonic woe, that well

Might make ev'n grim Dissenter's heart ache:Of ten whole Bishops snatch'd away

For ever from the light of day;

(With God knows, too, how many more, For whom that doom is yet in store)— Of Rectors cruelly compell'd

From Bath and Cheltenham to haste home,
Because the tithes, by Pat withheld,

Will not to Bath or Cheltenham come;
Nor will the flocks consent to pay
Their parsons thus to stay away ;—
Though, with such parsons, one may doubt
If 'tisn't money well laid out;-
Of all, in short, and each degree
Of that once happy Hierarchy,

Which used to roll in wealth so pleasantly;
But now, alas, is doom'd to see

Its surplus brought to nonplus presently!

Such are the themes this man of pathos,
Priest of prose and Lord of bathos,

Will preach and preach t'ye, till you're dull again;

Then, hail him, Saints, with joint acclaim,
Shout to the stars his tuneful name,
Which Murtagh was, ere known to fame,
But now is Mortimer O'Mulligan!

All true, Dick, true as you're alive—
I've seen him, some hours since, arrive.
Murtagh is come, the great Itinerant—
And Tuesday, in the market-place,
Intends, to every saint and sinner in't,

To state what he calls Ireland's Case;
Meaning thereby the case of his shop,-
Of curate, vicar, rector, bishop,
And all those other grades seraphic,
That make men's souls their special traffic,
Though caring not a pin which way
Th' erratic souls go, so they pay.—
Just as some roguish country nurse,

Who takes a foundling babe to suckle,
First pops the payment in her purse,

Then leaves poor dear to-suck its knuckle:
Even so these reverend rigmaroles
Pocket the money-starve the souls.
Murtagh, however, in his glory,

Will tell, next week, a different story;
Will make out all these men of barter,
As each a saint, a downright martyr,
Brought to the stake-i. e. a beef one,
Of all their martyrdoms the chief one;
Though try them even at this, they'll bear it,
If tender and wash'd down with claret.

Meanwhile Miss Fudge, who loves all lions,
Your saintly, next to great and high 'uns—
(A Viscount, be he what he may
Would cut a Saint out, any day,)
Has just announced a godly rout,
Where Murtagh's to be first brought out,
And shown in his tame, week-day state:—
"Prayers, half-past seven, tea at eight."
Even so the circular missive orders-
Pink cards, with cherubs round the borders.

Haste, Dick-you're lost, if you lose time,
Spinsters at forty-five grow giddy,
And Murtagh with his tropes sublime,
Will surely carry off old Biddy,
Unless some spark at once propose,
And distance him by downright prose.
That sick, rich squire, whose wealth and lands
All pass, they say, to Biddy's hands,
(The patron, Dick, of three fat rectories!)
Is dying of angina pectoris ;—
So that, unless you're stirring soon,
Murtagh, that priest of puff and pelf,
May come in for a honey-moon,

And be the man of it, himself!

As for me, Dick-'tis whim, 'tis folly, But this young niece absorbs me wholly.

'Tis true, the girl's a vile verse-maker

Would rhyme all nature, if you'd let her;— But even her oddities, plague take her,

But make me love her all the better. Too true it is, she's bitten sadly With this new rage for rhyming badly, Which late hath seized all ranks and classes, Down to that new Estate," the masses;"

Till one pursuit all taste combinesOne common railroad o'er Parnassus, Where, sliding in those tuneful grooves, Call'd couplets, all creation moves,

And the whole world runs mad in lines. Add to all this-what's even still worse, As rhyme itself, though still a curse, Sounds better to a chinking purse— Scarce sixpence hath my charmer got, While I can muster just a groat; So that, computing self and Venus, Tenpence would clear th' amount between us.

However, things may yet prove better:-
Meantime, what awful length of letter!
And how, while heaping thus with gibes
The Pegasus of modern scribes,
My own small hobby of farrago
Hath beat the pace at which even they go!

LETTER V.

FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, IN ENGLAND, TO HIS WIFE
JUDY, AT MULLINAFAD.

DEAR JUDY, I sind you this bit of a letther,
By mail-coach conveyance-for want of a betther-
To tell you what luck in this world I have had
Since I left the sweet cabin, at Mullinafad.
Och, Judy, that night!-when the pig which we

meant

To dry-nurse, in the parlor, to pay off the rent, Julianna, the craythur-that name was the death of her-10

Gave us the shlip and we saw the last breath of her!

And there were the childher, six innocent sowls,
For their nate little play-fellow tuning up howls;
While yourself, my dear Judy, (though grievin's a
folly,)

Stud over Julianna's remains, melancholy-
Cryin', half for the craythur, and half for the

money,

*Arrah, why did ye die till we'd sowl'd you, my honey?"

But God's will be done!-and then, faith, sure enough,

As the pig was desaiced, 'twas high time to be off. So we gother'd up all the poor duds we could catch, Lock'd the owld cabin-door, put the kay in the thatch,

Then tuk laave of each other's sweet lips in the dark,

And set off, like the Chrishtians turn'd out of the Ark;

The six childher with you, my dear Judy, ochone! And poor I wid myself, left condolin' alone.

How I came to this England, o'er say and o'er lands,
And what cruel hard walkin' I've had on my hands,
Is, at this present writin', too tadious to speak,
So I'll mintion it all in a postscript, next week :—
Only starved I was, surely, as thin as a lath,
Till I came to an up-and-down place they call Bath,
Where, as luck was, I managed to make a meal's

meat,

By dhraggin' owld ladies all through the streetWhich their docthors (who pocket, like fun, the

pound starlins)

Have brought into fashion to plase the owld darlins.
Div'l a boy in all Bath, though I say it, could carry,
The grannies up hill half so handy as Larry;
And the higher they lived, like owld crows, in the air,
The more I was wanted to lug them up there.

But luck has two handles, dear Judy, they say,
And mine has both handles put on the wrong way.
For, pondherin', one morn, on a drame I'd just had
Of yourself and the babbies, at Mullinafa,
Och, there came o'er my sinses so plasin' a flutther,
That I spilt an owld Countess right clane in the
gutther,

Muff, feathers, and all!-the descint was most awful,

And-what was still worse, faith-I knew 'twas unlawful;

For, though, with mere women, no very great evil,
T' upset an owld Countess in Bath is the divil !
So, liftin' the chair, with herself safe upon it,
(For nothin' about her was kilt, but her bɔnnet,)
Without even mentionin'" By your lave, ma'am,"
I tuk to my heels and-here, Judy, I am!

What's the name of this town I can't say very well, But your heart sure will jump when you hear what befell

Your own beautiful Larry, the very first day, (And a Sunday it was, shinin' out mighty gay,) When his brogues to this city of luck found their

way.

Bein' hungry, God help me, and happenin' to stop, Just to dine on the shmell of a pasthry-cook's shop, I saw, in the window, a large printed paper,

Upon which says myself, wid a wink just as shly, "Is't a Protestant?-oh yes, I am, sir," says I;— And there the chat ended, and div'l a more word

And read there a name, och! that made my heart Controvarsial between us has since then occurr’d.

Next Tuesday, (as towld in the play-bills I min tion'd,

Address'd to the loyal and godly intintion'd,)
His rivirence, my master, comes forward to preach,—
Myself doesn't know whether sarmon or speech,
But it's all one to him, he's a dead hand at each;
Like us, Paddys, in gin'ral, whose skill in orations
Quite bothers the blarney of all other nations.

"My own fosther-brother-by jinks, I'm in clover. "Though there, in the play-bill, he figures so grand, But, whisht!-there's his Rivirence, shoutin' out "One wet-nurse it was brought us both up by hand, "And he'll not see me shtarve in the inemy's land!"

Well, to make a long hishtory short, niver doubt
But I managed, in no time, to find the lad out;
And the joy of the meetin' bethuxt him and me,
Such a pair of owld cumrogues-was charmin' to

see.

Nor is Murthagh less plased with th' evint than I

am,

As he just then was wanting a Valley-de-sham; And, for dressin' a gintleman, one way or t'other, Your nate Irish lad is beyant every other.

But now, Judy, comes the quare part of the case; And, in throth, it's the only drawback on my place, "Twas Murthagh's ill luck to be cross'd, as you

know,

With an awkward mishfortune some short time ago; That's to say, he turn'd Protestant-why, I can't

larn;

But, of coorse, he knew best, an' it's not my consarn. All I know is, we both were good Cath'lics, at nurse, And myself am so still-nayther betther nor worse. Well, our bargain was all right and tight in a jiffey, And lads more contint never yet left the Liffey, Whoa Murthagh-or Morthimer, as he's now chrishen'd,

His name being convarted, at laist, if he isn'tLookin' sly at me, (faith, 'twas divartin' to see,) "Of coorse, you're a Protestant, Larry," says he,

"Larry,"

And sorra a word more will this shmall paper carry;
So here, Judy, ends my short bit of a letther,
Which, faix, I'd have made a much bigger and
betther,

But div'l a one Post-office hole in this town
Fit to swallow a dacent-sized billy-dux down.
So good luck to the childer!-tell Molly, I love
her;

Kiss Oonagh's sweet mouth, and kiss Katty all

over

Not forgettin' the mark of the red currant whiskey
She got at the fair when yourself was so frisky.
The heavens be your bed I will write, when I
can again,
Yours to the world's end,

LARRY O'BRANIGAN.

LETTER VI.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH

How I grieve you're not with us!—pray, come, it you can,

Ere we're robb'd of this dear oratorical man,
Who combines in himself all the multiple glory
Of Orangeman, Saint, quondam Papist, and Tory ;--

(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,

The best sort of brass was, in old times, com-
pounded)-

The sly and the saintly, the worldy and godly,
All fused down in brogue so deliciously oddly!
In short, he's a dear-and such audiences draws,
Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause,
As can't but do good to the Protestant cause.

Poor dear Irish Church!-he to-day sketch'd a view
Of her history and prospects, to me at least new,
And which (if it takes as it ought) must arouse
The whole Christian world her just rights to espouse.
As to reasoning-you know, dear, that's now of no

use,

People still will their facts and dry figures produce,
As if saving the souls of a Protestant flock were
A thing to be managed “according to Cocker!"
In vain do we say, (when rude radicals hector
At paying some thousands a year to a Rector,
In places where Protestants never yet were,)
"Who knows but young Protestants may be born
there?"

And granting such accident, think, what a shame,
If they didn't find Rector and Clerk when they

came!

It is clear that, without such a staff on full pay
These little Church embryos must go astray;
And, while fools are computing what Parsons would
cost,

It was therefore, dear Lizzy, with joy most sincere, That I heard this nice Reverend O'something we've here,

Produce, from the depths of his knowledge and
reading,

A view of that marvellous Church, far exceeding,
In novelty, force, and profoundness of thought,
All that Irving himself, in his glory, e'er taught.

Looking through the whole history, present and
past,

Of the Irish Law Church, from the first to the last;
Considering how strange its original birth-
Such a thing having never before been on earth-
How opposed to the instinct, the law, and the
force

Of nature and reason has been its whole course,
Through centuries encount'ring repugnance, resist-

ance,

Scorn, hate, execration-yet still in existence!
Considering all this, the conclusion he draws

Is that Nature exempts this one Church from her
laws-

That Reason, dumb-founder'd, gives up the dispute,
And before the portentous anomaly stands mute;-
That, in short, 'tis a Miracle!—and, once begun,
And transmitted through ages, from father to son,
For the honor of miracles, ought to go on.

Never yet was conclusion so cogent and sound,
Or so fitted the Church's weak foes to confound.

Precious souls are meanwhile to th' Establishment For, observe, the more low all her merits they place, lost!

In vain do we put the case sensibly thus;

The more they make out the miraculous case,
And the more all good Christians must deem it
profane

They'll still with their figures and facts make a fuss, To disturb such a prodigy's marvellous reign.
And ask if, while all, choosing each his own road,

"Journey on, as we can, towards the Heavenly As for scriptural proofs, he quite placed beyond Abode,

"It is right that seven eighths of the travellers

should, pay

doubt

That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out,

"For one eighth that goes quite a different way?" As clear and well-proved, he would venture to

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