The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 232

"A sign of the times, I plainly see,"

Said the Saint to himself as, pondering, he Sailed off in the death-boat gallantly.

Arrived on earth, quoth he, "No more "I'll affect a body as before; "For I think I'd best, in the company "Of Spiritual Lords, a spirit be, "And glide unseen from See to See."

But oh! to tell what scenes he saw,-- It was more than Rabelais's pen could draw.

For instance, he found Exeter, Soul, body, inkstand, all in a stir,-- For love of G.o.d? for sake of King?

For good of people?--no such thing; But to get for himself, by some new trick, A shove to a better bishop.r.i.c.k.

He found that pious soul, Van Mildert, Much with his money-bags bewildered; Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocese, Because the rogues showed restlessness At having too little cash to touch, While he so Christianly bears too much.

He found old Sarum's wits as gone As his own beloved text in John,--[2]

Text he hath prosed so long upon, That 'tis thought when askt, at the gate of heaven, His name, he'll answer, "John, v. 7."

"But enough of Bishops I've had to-day,"

Said the weary Saint,--"I must away.

"Tho' I own I should like before I go "To see for once (as I'm askt below "If really such odd sights exist) "A regular six-fold Pluralist."

Just then he heard a general cry-- "There's Doctor Hodgson galloping by!"

"Ay, that's the man," says the Saint, "to follow,"

And off he sets with a loud view-h.e.l.lo, At Hodgson's heels, to catch if he can A glimpse of this singular plural man.

But,--talk of Sir Boyle Roche's bird![3]

To compare him with Hodgson is absurd.

"Which way, sir, pray, is the doctor gone?"-- "He is now at his living at Hillingdon."-- "No, no,--you're out, by many a mile, "He's away at his Deanery in Carlisle."-- "Pardon me, sir; but I understand "He's gone to his living in c.u.mberland."-- "G.o.d bless me, no,--he can?t be there; "You must try St. George's, Hanover Square."

Thus all in vain the Saint inquired, From living to living, mockt and tired;-- 'Twas Hodgson here, 'twas Hodgson there, 'Twas Hodgson nowhere, everywhere; Till fairly beat the Saint gave o'er And flitted away to the Stygian sh.o.r.e, To astonish the natives underground With the comical things he on earth had found.

[1] The wig, which had so long formed an essential part of the dress of an English bishop, was at this time beginning to be dispensed with.

[2] 1 John v. 7. A text which, though long given up by all the rest of the orthodox world, is still pertinaciously adhered to by this Right Reverend scholar.

[3] It was a saying of the well-known Sir Boyle, that "a man could not be in two places at once, unless he was a bird."

THOUGHTS ON TAR BARRELS.

(VIDE DESCRIPTION OF A LATE FeTE.)[1]

1832.

What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised 'Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one's noses!

And how the tar-barrels must all be surprised To find themselves seated like "Love among roses!"

What a pity we can't, by precautions like these, Clear the air of that other still viler infection; That radical pest, that old whiggish disease, Of which cases, true-blue, are in every direction.

Stead of barrels, let's light up an _Auto da Fe_ Of a few good combustible Lords of "the Club;"

They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away, And there's Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub.

How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out!

A volcano of nonsense in active display; While Vane, as a b.u.t.t, amidst laughter, would spout The hot nothings he's full of, all night and all day.

And then, for a finish, there's c.u.mberland's Duke,-- Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in air!

Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look) He's already bespoke for combustion elsewhere.

[1] The Marquis of Hertford's Fete.--From dread of cholera his Lordship had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.

THE CONSULTATION.[1]

"When they _do_ agree, their unanimity is wonderful. _The Critic_.

1833.

_Scene discovers Dr. Whig and Dr. Tory in consultation. Patient on the floor between them_.

_Dr. Whig_.--This wild Irish patient _does_ pester me so.

That what to do with him, I'm curst if I know.

I've _promist_ him anodynes-- _Dr. Tory_. Anodynes!--Stuff.

Tie him down--gag him well--he'll be tranquil enough.

That's _my_ mode of practice.

_Dr Whig_. True, quite in _your_ line, But unluckily not much, till lately, in _mine_.

'Tis so painful-- _Dr. Tory_.--Pooh, nonsense--ask Ude how he feels, When, for Epicure feasts, he prepares his live eels, By flinging them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire, And letting them wriggle on there till they tire.

_He_, too, says "'tis painful"--"quite makes his heart bleed"-- But "Your eels are a vile, oleaginous breed."-- He would fain use them gently, but Cookery says "No,"

And--in short--eels were _born_ to be treated just so.[2]

'Tis the same with these Irish,--who're odder fish still,-- Your tender Whig heart shrinks from using them ill; I myself in my youth, ere I came to get wise, Used at some operations to blush to the eyes:-- But, in fact, my dear brother,--if I may make bold To style you, as Peachum did Lockit, of old,-- We, Doctors, _must_ act with the firmness of Ude, And, indifferent like him,--so the fish is _but_ stewed,-- _Must_ torture live Pats for the general good.

[_Here patient groans and kicks a little_.]

_Dr. Whig_.--But what, if one's patient's so devilish perverse, That he _won't_ be thus tortured?

_Dr. Tory_. Coerce, sir, coerce.

You're a juvenile performer, but once you begin, You can?t think how fast you may train your hand in: And (_smiling_) who knows but old Tory may take to the shelf, With the comforting thought that, in place and in pelf, He's succeeded by one just as--bad as himself?

_Dr. Whig_ (_looking flattered_).-- Why, to tell you the truth, I've a small matter here, Which you helped me to make for my patient last year,-- [_Goes to a cupboard and brings out a strait-waistcoat and gag_.]

And such rest I've enjoyed from his raving since then That I've made up my mind he shall wear it again.

_Dr. Tory_ (_embracing him_).?

Oh, charming!?-My dear Doctor Whig, you're a treasure, Next to torturing, _myself_, to help _you_ is a pleasure.

[_a.s.sisting Dr. Whig_.]

Give me leave--I've some practice in these mad machines; There--tighter--the gag in the mouth, by all means.

Delightful!--all's snug--not a squeak need you fear,-- You may now put your anodynes off till next year.

[_Scene closes_.]