The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 225

If Lairds an' fine Ladies, on Sunday, think right To gang to the deevil--as maist o' 'em do-- To stop them our Andie would think na polite; And 'tis odds (if the chiel could get onything by't) But he'd follow 'em, booing, would Andrew Agnew.

[1] Servants in livery.

AWFUL EVENT.

Yes, Winchelsea (I tremble while I pen it), Winehelsea's Earl hath _cut_ the British Senate-- Hath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff, "_That_ for ye all"[snapping his fingers] and exit in a huff!

Disastrous news!--like that of old which spread, From sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, "our mighty Pan is dead,"

O'er the cross benches (cross from _being_ crost) Sounds the loud wail, "Our Winchelsea is lost!"

Which of ye, Lords, that heard him can forget The deep impression of that awful threat, "I quit your house!!"--midst all that histories tell, I know but _one_ event that's parallel:--

It chanced at Drury Lane, one Easter night, When the gay G.o.ds too blest to be polite G.o.ds at their ease, like those of learned Lucretius, Laught, whistled, groaned, uproariously facetious-- A well-drest member of the middle gallery, Whose "ears polite" disdained such low canaillerie, Rose in his place--so grand, you'd almost swear Lord Winchelsea himself stood towering there-- And like that Lord of dignity and _nous_, Said, "Silence, fellows, or--I'll leave the house!!"

How brookt the G.o.ds this speech? Ah well-a-day, That speech so fine should be so thrown away!

In vain did this mid-gallery grandee a.s.sert his own two-shilling dignity-- In vain he menaced to withdraw the ray Of his own full-price countenance away-- Fun against Dignity is fearful odds, And as the Lords laugh _now_, so giggled _then_ the G.o.ds!

THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.

PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS ODE, "COME, CLOE, and GIVE ME SWEET KISSES."

"We want more Churches and more Clergymen."

_Bishop of London's late Charge_.

_"rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus augent."

Claudian in Eutrop_.

Come, give us more Livings and Rectors, For, richer no realm ever gave; But why, ye unchristian objectors, Do ye ask us how many we crave?[1]

Oh there can't be too many rich Livings For souls of the Pluralist kind, Who, despising old Crocker's misgivings, To numbers can ne'er be confined.[2]

Count the cormorants hovering about,[3]

At the time their fish season sets in, When these models of keen diners-out Are preparing their beaks to begin.

Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses, Flock round when the harvest's in play, And not minding the farmer's distresses, Like devils in grain peck away.

Go, number the locusts in heaven,[4]

On the way to some t.i.theable sh.o.r.e; And when so many Parsons you've given, We still shall be craving for more.

Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye Must leave us in peace to augment.

For the wretch who could number the Clergy, With few will be ever content.

[1]

Come, Cloe, and give me sweet kisses, For sweeter sure never girl gave; But why, in the midst of my blisses, Do you ask me how many I'd have?

[2]

For whilst I love thee above measure, To numbers I'll ne'er be confined.

[3]

Count the bees that on Hybla are playing, Count the flowers that enamel its fields, Count the flocks, etc.

[4]

Go number the stars in the heaven, Count how many sands on the sh.o.r.e, When so many kisses you've given, I still shall be craving for more.

A SAD CASE.

"If it be the undergraduate season at which this _rabies religiosa_ is to be so fearful, what security has Mr. Goulburn against it at this moment, when his son is actually exposed to the full venom of an a.s.sociation with Dissenters?"

--_The Times_, March 25.

How sad a case!--just think of it-- If Goulburn junior should be bit By some insane Dissenter, roaming Thro' Granta's halls, at large and foaming, And with that aspect _ultra_ crabbed Which marks Dissenters when they're rabid!

G.o.d only knows what mischiefs might Result from this one single bite, Or how the venom, once suckt in, Might spread and rage thro' kith and kin.

Mad folks of all denominations First turn upon their own relations: So that _one_ Goulburn, fairly bit, Might end in maddening the whole kit, Till ah! ye G.o.ds! we'd have to rue Our Goulburn senior bitten too; The Hychurchphobia in those veins, Where Tory blood now redly reigns;-- And that dear man who now perceives Salvation only in lawn sleeves, Might, tainted by such coa.r.s.e infection, Run mad in the opposite direction.

And think, poor man, 'tis only given To linsey-woolsey to reach Heaven!

Just fancy what a shock 'twould be Our Goulburn in his fits to see, Tearing into a thousand particles His once-loved Nine and Thirty Articles; (Those Articles his friend, the Duke,[1]

For Gospel, t'other night, mistook;) Cursing cathedrals, deans and singers-- Wishing the ropes might hang the ringers-- Pelting the church with blasphemies, Even worse than Parson Beverley's;-- And ripe for severing Church and State, Like any creedless reprobate, Or like that cla.s.s of Methodists Prince Waterloo styles "Atheists!"

But 'tis too much--the Muse turns pale, And o'er the picture drops a veil, Praying, G.o.d save the Goulburns all From mad Dissenters great and small!

[1] The Duke of Wellington, who styled them "the Articles of Christianity."