The poetical works of Thomas Moore, with notes

NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS.

DEAR Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper,
When Parliament's up, ever take in a paper,

But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends
As you chance to pick up from political friends-
Being one of this well-informed class, I sit down,
To transmit you the last newest news that's in town.

As to Greece and Lord Cochrane, things couldn't look better—
His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster)
Has just taken Rhodes, and despatched off a letter
To Daniel O'Connell, to make him Grand Master;
Engaging to change the old name, if he can,

From the Knights of St. John to the Knights of St. Dan—
Or, if Dan should prefer, as a still better whim
Being made the Colossus, 'tis all one to him.

From Russia the last accounts are, that the Czar-
Most generous and kind, as all sovereigns are,

And whose first princely act (as you know, I suppose)
Was to give away all his late brother's old clothes-
Is now busy collecting, with brotherly care,

The late Emperor's night-caps, and thinks of bestowing
One night-cup apiece (if he has them to spare)

On all the distinguished old ladies now going..
(While I write an arrival from Riga-' the Brothers'-
Having night-caps on board for Lord Eld-n and others.)

Last advices from India-Sir Archy, 'tis thought,
Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught
In N. lat. 21)-and his Highness Burmese,
Being very hard pressed to shell out the rupees,
But not having much ready rhino, they say, meant
To pawn his august golden foot' for the payment.-
(How lucky for monarchs, that can, when they choose,
Thus establish a running account with the Jews!)
The security being what Rothschild calls 'goot,'
A loan will be forthwith, of course, set on foot ;-
The parties are Rothschild-A. Baring and Co.,
And three other great pawnbrokers-each takes a toe,

'This Potentate styles himself the Monarch of the Golden Foot..

And engages (lest Gold-foot should give us leg bail, As he did once before) to pay down on the nail.

This is all for the present-what vile pens and paper Yours truly, dear Cousin-best love to Miss Draper.

AN INCANTATION.

SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT.
AIR-' Come with me, and we will go

Where the rocks of coral grow.'
COME with me, and we will blow
Lots of bubbles, as we go;
Bubbles, bright as ever Hope
Drew from fancy-or from soap;
Bright as e'er the South Sea sent
From its frothy element !
Come with me, and we will blow
Lots of bubbles as we go.

Mix the lather, Johnny W-lks,
Thou who rhym'st so well to 'bilks :1
Mix the lather-who can be
Fitter for such task than thee,
Great M.P. for Sudsbury!

Now the frothy charm is ripe,
Puffing Peter, bring thy pipe,-
Thou, whom ancient Coventry
Once so dearly loved, that she
Knew not which to her was sweeter,
Peeping Tom or puffing Peter-

Puff the bubbles high in air,
Puff thy best to keep them there.
Bravo, bravo, Peter M-re!
Now the rainbow humbugs2 soar,
Glittering all with golden hues,
Such as haunt the dreams of Jews-
Some, reflecting mines that lie
Under Chili's glowing sky;
Some, those virgin pearls that sleep
Cloistered in the southern deep;

1 Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes to names. Marvell thought so, when he wrote:

'Sir Edward Sutton, The foolish knight who rhymes to mutton.' 2 An humble imitation of one of our modern poets, who, in a poem against war, after describ

Others, as if lent a ray

From the streaming Milky Way,
Glistening o'er with curds and whey
From the cows of Alderney!
Now's the moment-who shall first
Catch the bubbles ere they burst?
Run, ye squires, ye viscounts, run,
Br-gd-n, T-ynh-m, P-lm—r-

st-n;John W-lks, junior, runs beside ye, Take the good the knaves provide ye!3 See, with upturned eyes and hands, Where the Chareman, Br-gd-n, stands,

Gaping for the froth to fall
Down his swallow-lye and all !
See!-

But, hark, my time is out-
Now, like some great waterspout,
Scattered by the cannon's thunder,
Burst, ye bubbles, all asunder!

[Here the stage darkens-a discordant crash is heard from the orchestra—the broken bubbles descend in a saponaceous but uncleanly mist over the heads of the Dramatis Persona, and the scene drops, leaving the bubble-hunters—all in the suds.]

But a turtle journeying o'er the sea, 'On the service of his Majesty!'

When I spied him first, in the twilight dim,

I did not know what to make of him; But said to myself-as slow he plied His fins, and rolled from side to side, Conceitedly over the watery path"Tis my Lord of St-w-11 taking a bath;

And I hear him now, among the fishes,
Quoting Vattel and Burgerdiscius !'

But, no-twas, indeed, a turtle, wide
And plump as ever these eyes descried;
A turtle, juicy as ever yet
Glued up the lips of a baronet !
Ah, much did it grieve my soul to see
That an animal of such dignity,
Like an absentee, abroad should roam,
When he ought to stay and be ate at
home.

But now 'a change came o'er my dream,' Like the magic lantern's shifting slider ;

I looked, and saw by the evening beam, On the back of that turtle sate a rider,

A goodly man, with an eye so merry,
I knew 'twas our Foreign Secretary,
Who there, at his ease, did sit and smile,
Like Waterton on his crocodile ;
Cracking such jokes, at every motion,

As made the turtle squeak with glee, And own that they gave him a lively

notion

Of what his own forced-meat balls
would be.

So on the Sec., in his glory, went
Over that briny element,

Waving his hand, as he took farewell,
With a graceful air, and bidding me tell
Inquiring friends that the turtle and he
Were gone on a foreign embassy-
To soften the heart of a Diplomate,
Who is known to doat upon verdant fat,
And to let admiring Europe see,
That calipash and calipee

Are the English forms of Diplomacy!

COTTON AND CORN.

A DIALOGUE.

SAID Cotton to Coru t'other day,
As they met, and exchanged a salute-
(Squire Corn in his cabriolet,
Poor Cotton, half famished, on foot)—

'Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil

To hint at starvation before you, Look down on a hungry poor devil, And give him some bread, I implore you !'

Quoth Corn then, in answer to Cotton, Perceiving he meant to make free,— 'Low fellow, you've surely forgotten

The distance between you and me!

'To expect that we, peers of high birth, Should waste our illustrious acres For no other purpose on earth

Than to fatten curst calico-makers!

'That bishops to bobbins should bend, Should stoop from their bench's sublimity,

Great dealers in lawn, to befriend

Your contemptible dealers in dimity!

'No-vile manufacture! ne'er harbour Base offspring of Arkwright the barber, A hope to be fed at our boards;

What claim canst thou have upon lords?

'No-thanks to the taxes and debt,
And the triumph of papero'er guineas,
Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,
May defy your whole rabble of Jennys!'

So saying, whip, crack, and away Went Corn in his cab through the throng,

So madly, I heard them all say Squire Corn would be down before long.

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.

A FABLE.

Fessus jam sudat asellus,

Parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus.-Virgil. Copa.

A DONKEY, whose talent for burdens was wondrous,
So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous,
That-down the poor donkey fell, smack on the road.

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze-
What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy,
So easy to drive through the dirtiest ways,

For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have 'hailed' as a 'brother')1
Had just been proclaiming his donkey's renown,

For vigour, for spirit, for one thing or other,

When, lo, 'mid his praises, the donkey came down !

But, how to upraise him?-one shouts, t'other whistles,
While Jenky the conjuror, wisest of all,

Declared that an 'over production of thistles 2
(Here Ned gave a stare)-was the cause of his fall.

Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes,

'There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease
The beast has been fighting with other jackasses,
And this is his mode of " transition to peace.'

Some looked at his hoofs, and, with learned grimaces,
Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone-
'Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis,
(The wiseacres said), and he's sure to jog on.'

But others who gabbled a jargon half Gaelic,

Exclaimed, Hoot awa, mon, you're a' gane astray,'-
And declared that, 'whoe'er might prefer the metallic,
They'd shoe their own donkeys with papier maché.'

Meanwhile the poor Neddy, in torture and fear,
Lay under his pannier, scarce able to groan,
And-what was still dolefuller-lending an ear
To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far
As to see others' folly, roared out, as he passed-
'Quick-off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!'

Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge's addressed to an ass, and beginning, 'I hail thee,

brother!'

2 A certain country gentleman having said in

the House, 'that we must return at last to the food of our ancestors,' somebody asked Mr. T. what food the gentleman meant P'-'Thistles, I suppose,' answered Mr. T.

ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE.

GREAT Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions!
And oh, above all, I admire that decree,
In which thou command'st that all she politicians
Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea.

"Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster-
A maid, who her faith in old Jeremy puts;
Who talks, with a lisp, of the last new Westminster,'
And hopes you're delighted with 'Mill upon Gluts;'
Who tells you how clever one Mr. F-nbl-nque is,
How charming his Articles 'gainst the Nobility;-
And assures you, that even a gentleman's rank is,
In Jeremy's school, of no sort of utility.

To see her, ye Gods, a new Number devouring-
Art. 1, On the Needle's variations,' by Snip;
Art. 2, 'On the Bondage of Greece,' by John B-r-ng
(That eminent dealer in scribbling and scrip);

Art. 3, Upon Fallacies,' Jeremy's own

(The chief fallacy being his hope to find readers); Art. 4, Upon Honesty-author unknown;

Art. 5 (by the young Mr. M-), 'Hints to Breeders.'

Oh Sultan, oh Sultan, though oft for the bag

And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call-
Though drowning's too good for each blue-stocking hag,
I would bag this she Benthamite first of them all!

Ay, and-lest she should ever again lift her head
From the watery bottom, her clack to renew,-
As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead,

I would hang round her neck her own darling Review.

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The poetical works of Thomas Moore, with notes, Tema 354