The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 213

_Dublin, March 12, 1827_.--Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country.--_Freeman's Journal_.

I have found out a gift for my Erin, A gift that will surely content her:-- Sweet pledge of a love so endearing!

Five millions of bullets I've sent her.

She askt me for Freedom and Right, But ill she her wants understood;-- Ball cartridges, morning and night, Is a dose that will do her more good.

There is hardly a day of our lives But we read, in some amiable trials, How husbands make love to their wives Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials.

_One_ thinks, with his mistress or mate A good halter is sure to agree-- That love-knot which, early and late, I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee.

While _another_, whom Hymen has blest With a wife that is not over placid, Consigns the dear charmer to rest, With a dose of the best Prussic acid.

Thus, Erin! my love do I show-- Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed!

And, as poison and hemp are too slow, Do thy business with bullets instead.

Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken, Ask Roden, that mildest of saints; He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken, Alone can remove thy complaints;--

That, blest as thou art in thy lot, Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant But being hanged, tortured and shot, Much oftener than thou art at present.

Even Wellington's self hath averred Thou art yet but half sabred and hung, And I loved him the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from his tongue.

So take the five millions of pills, Dear partner, I herewith inclose; 'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill, From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.

And you, ye brave bullets that go, How I wish that, before you set out, The _Devil_ of the Freischutz could know The good work you are going about.

For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead.

Into such supernatural wit.

That you'd all of you know, as you sped, Where a bullet of sense _ought_ to hit.

A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.[1]

_regnis_ EX _sul ademptis_.--Verg. 1827.

To Swanage--that neat little town in whose bay Fair Thetis shows off in her best silver slippers-- Lord Bags[2] took his annual trip t'other day, To taste the sea breezes and chat with the dippers.

There--learned as he is in conundrums and laws-- Quoth he to his dame (whom he oft plays the wag on), "Why are chancery suitors like bathers?"--"Because Their _suits_ are _put off_, till they haven't a rag on."

Thus on he went chatting--but, lo! while he chats, With a face full of wonder around him he looks; For he misses his parsons, his dear shovel hats, Who used to flock round him at Swanage like rooks.

"How is this, Lady Bags?--to this region aquatic "Last year they came swarming to make me their bow, "As thick as Burke's cloud o'er the vales of Carnatic, "Deans, Rectors, D.D.'s--where the devil are they now?"

"My dearest Lord Bags!" saith his dame, "_can_ you doubt?

"I am loath to remind you of things so unpleasant; "But _don't_ you perceive, dear, the Church have found out "That you're one of the people called _Ex's_, at present?"

"Ah, true--you have hit it--I _am_, indeed, one "Of those ill-fated _Ex's_ (his Lordship replies), "And with tears, I confess--G.o.d forgive me the pun!-- "We X's have proved ourselves _not_ to be Y's."

[1] A small bathing-place on the coast of Dorsetshire, long a favorite summer resort of the ex-n.o.bleman in question and, _till this season_, much frequented also by gentlemen of the church.

[2] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.

WO! WO![1]

Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it-- That beautiful Light which is now on its way; Which beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet, Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!

Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee!

How formed to all tastes are thy various employs.

The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee; The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.

Wo, wo to the man who such doings would smother!-- On, Luther of Bavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy!

With whip in one hand and with Bible in t'other, Like Mungo's tormentor, both "preachee and floggee."

Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way; Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition, Popt Shakespeare, they say, in the river one day, Tho' 'twas only old Bowdler's _Velluti_ edition.

Come, Roden, who doubtest--so mild are thy views-- Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation; Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose 'Twixt good _old_ Rebellion and _new_ Reformation.

What more from her Saints can Hibernia require?

St. Bridget of yore like a dutiful daughter Supplied her, 'tis said, with perpetual fire,[2]

And Saints keep her _now_ in eternal hot water.

Wo, wo to the man who would check their career, Or stop the Millennium that's sure to await us, When blest with an orthodox crop every year, We shall learn to raise Protestants fast as potatoes.

In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know, Had been trying their talent for many a day; Till Farnham, when all had been tried, came to show, Like the German flea-catcher, "anoder goot way."

And nothing's more simple than Farnham's receipt;-- "Catch your Catholic, first--soak him well in _poteen_, "Add _salary_ sauce,[3] and the thing is complete.

"You may serve up your Protestant smoking and clean."

"Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!"

Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow[4]

Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery Opened their bills and re-echoed "Wo! wo!"

[1] Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Chester on the subject of the New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced "Wo! Wo! Wo!"

pretty abundantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress.