The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 195

There--enough--thy task is done; Present, worthy George's Son; Now, beneath, in letters neat, Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.

[1] Perceval.

[2] In allusion to "the Book" which created such a sensation at that period.

EXTRACTS

FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.

_Wednesday_.

Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now-- Met the _old yellow chariot_[1] and made a low bow.

This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil, But got such a look--oh! 'twas black as the devil!

How unlucky!--_incog_. he was travelling about, And I like a noodle, must go find him out.

_Mem_.--when next by the old yellow chariot I ride, To remember there _is_ nothing princely inside.

_Thursday_.

At Levee to-day made another sad blunder-- What _can_ be come over me lately, I wonder?

The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife-- "Fine weather," says he--to which I, who _must_ prate, Answered, "Yes, Sir, but _changeable_ rather, of late."

He took it, I fear, for he lookt somewhat gruff, And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough, That before all the courtiers I feared they'd come off, And then, Lord, how Geramb[2] would triumphantly scoff!

_Mem_.--to buy for son d.i.c.ky some unguent or lotion To nourish his whiskers--sure road to promotion![3]

_Sat.u.r.day_.

Last night a Concert--vastly gay-- Given by Lady Castlereagh.

My Lord loves music, and we know Has "two strings always to his bow."[4]

In choosing songs, the Regent named "_Had I a heart for falsehood framed_."

While gentle Hertford begged and prayed For "_Young I am and sore afraid_."

[1] The _incog_. vehicle of the Prince.

[2] Baron Geramb, the rival of his R. H. in whiskers.

[3] England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed and rewarded. "I remember," says Tavernier, "to have seen one of the King of Persia's porters, whose mustaches were so long that he could tie them behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension."

[4] A rhetorical figure used by Lord Castlereagh, in one of his speeches.

EPIGRAM.

What news to-day?--"Oh! worse and worse-- "Mac[1] is the Prince's Privy Purse!"-- The Prince's _Purse_! no, no, you fool, You mean the Prince's _Ridicule_.

[1] Colonel M'Mahon.

KING CRACK[1] AND HIS IDOLS.

WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW MINISTRY.

King Crack was the best of all possible Kings, (At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,) But Crack now and then would do heterodox things, And at last took to worshipping _Images_ sadly.

Some broken-down Idols, that long had been placed In his father's old _Cabinet_, pleased him so much, That he knelt down and worshipt, tho'--such was his taste!-- They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch.

And these were the beautiful G.o.ds of King Crack!-- But his People disdaining to worship such things Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your G.o.dships must pack-- "You'll not do for _us_, tho' you _may_ do for _Kings_."

Then trampling these images under their feet, They sent Crack a pet.i.tion, beginning "Great Caesar!

"We're willing to worship; but only entreat "That you'll find us some _decenter_ G.o.dheads than these are."

"I'll try," says King Crack--so they furnisht him models Of better shaped G.o.ds but he sent them all back; Some were chiselled too fine, some had heads stead of noddles, In short they were all _much_ too G.o.dlike 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 G.o.ds and of man, Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.

[1] One of these antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston says) was the last King of the Antediluvian Dynasty.

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

_Quest_. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh?

_Answ_. Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout and spout and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!