The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 234

FOOLS' PARADISE.

DREAM THE FIRST.

I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice, To a realm they call Fool's Paradise, Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense, And seldom blest with a glimmer thence.

But they wanted not in this happy place, Where a light of its own gilds every face; Or if some wear a shadowy brow, 'Tis the _wish_ to look wise,--not knowing _how_.

Self-glory glistens o'er all that's there, The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air; The well-bred wind in a whisper blows, The snow, if it snows, is _couleur de rose_, The falling founts in a t.i.tter fall, And the sun looks simpering down on all.

Oh, 'tisn't in tongue or pen to trace The scenes I saw in that joyous place.

There were Lords and Ladies sitting together, In converse sweet, "What charming weather!-- "You'll all rejoice to hear, I'm sure, "Lord Charles has got a good sinecure; "And the Premier says, my youngest brother "(Him in the Guards) shall have another.

"Isn?t this very, _very_ gallant!-- "As for my poor old virgin aunt, "Who has lost her all, poor thing, at whist, "We must quarter _her_ on the Pension List."

Thus smoothly time in that Eden rolled; It seemed like an Age of _real_ gold, Where all who liked might have a slice, So rich was that Fools' Paradise.

But the sport at which most time they spent, Was a puppet-show, called Parliament Performed by wooden Ciceros, As large as life, who rose to prose, While, hid behind them, lords and squires, Who owned the puppets, pulled the wires; And thought it the very best device Of that most prosperous Paradise, To make the vulgar pay thro' the nose For them and their wooden Ciceros.

And many more such things I saw In this Eden of Church and State and Law; Nor e'er were known such pleasant folk As those who had the _best_ of the joke.

There were Irish Rectors, such as resort To Cheltenham yearly, to drink--port, And b.u.mper, "Long may the Church endure, "May her cure of souls be a sinecure, "And a score of Parsons to every soul "A moderate allowance on the whole."

There were Heads of Colleges lying about, From which the sense had all run out, Even to the lowest cla.s.sic lees, Till nothing was left but _quant.i.ties_; Which made them heads most fit to be Stuck up on a University, Which yearly hatches, in its schools, Such flights of young Elysian fools.

Thus all went on, so snug and nice, In this happiest possible Paradise.

But plain it was to see, alas!

That a downfall soon must come to pa.s.s.

For grief is a lot the good and wise Don?t quite so much monopolize, But that ("lapt in Elysium" as they are) Even blessed fools must have their share.

And so it happened:--but what befell, In Dream the Second I mean to tell.

THE RECTOR AND HIS CURATE;

OR, ONE POUND TWO.

"I trust we shall part as we met, in peace and charity. My last payment to you paid your salary up to the 1st of this month. Since that, I owe you for one month, which, being a long month, of thirty-one days, amounts, as near as I can calculate, to six pounds eight shillings. My steward returns you as a debtor to the amount of SEVEN POUNDS TEN SHILLINGS FOR c.o.x-ACRE-GROUND, which leaves some trifling balance in my favor."--_Letter of Dismissal from the Rev.

Marcus Beresford to his Curate, the Rev. T. A. Lyons_.

The account is balanced--the bill drawn out,-- The debit and credit all right, no doubt-- The Rector rolling in wealth and state, Owes to his Curate six pound eight; The Curate, that _least_ well-fed of men, Owes to his Rector seven pound ten, Which maketh the balance clearly due From Curate to Rector, one pound two.

Ah balance, on earth unfair, uneven!

But sure to be all set right in heaven, Where bills like these will be checkt, some day, And the balance settled the other way: Where Lyons the curate's hard-wrung sum Will back to his shade with interest come; And Marcus, the rector, deep may rue This tot, in his favor, of one pound two.

PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS.

1833.

About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies, That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud, Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies, As good raw material for _settlers_, abroad.

Some West-India island, whose name I forget, Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic; And such the success the first colony met, That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic.

Behold them now safe at the long-lookt-for sh.o.r.e, Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet, And thinking of friends whom, but two years before, They had sorrowed to lose, but would soon again meet.

And, hark! from the sh.o.r.e a glad welcome there came-- "Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?"

While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name Thus hailed by black devils, who capered for joy!

Can it possibly be?--half amazement--half doubt, Pat listens again--rubs his eyes and looks steady; Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out, "Good Lord! only think,--black and curly already!"

Deceived by that well-mimickt brogue in his ears, Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures, And thought, what a climate, in less than two years, To turn a whole cargo of Pats into n.i.g.g.e.rs!

MORAL.

'Tis thus,--but alas! by a marvel more true Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories,-- Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two, By a _lusus naturae_, all turn into Tories.

And thus, when I hear them "strong measures" advise, Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady, I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes, "Good Lord! only think,--black and curly already!"

c.o.c.kER, ON CHURCH REFORM.

FOUNDED UPON SOME LATE CALCULATIONS.

1833.

Fine figures of speech let your orators follow, Old c.o.c.ker has figures that beat them all hollow.

Tho' famed for his rules _Aristotle_ may be, In but _half_ of this Sage any merit I see, For, as honest Joe Hume says, the "_tottle_" for me!

For instance, while others discuss and debate, It is thus about Bishops _I_ ratiocinate.

In England, where, spite of the infidel's laughter, 'Tis certain our souls are lookt _very_ well after, Two Bishops can well (if judiciously sundered) Of parishes manage two thousand two hundred.-- Said number of parishes, under said teachers, Containing three millions of Protestant creatures,-- So that each of said Bishops full ably controls One million and five hundred thousands of souls.

And now comes old c.o.c.ker. In Ireland we're told, _Half_ a million includes the whole Protestant fold; If, therefore, for three million souls, 'tis conceded _Two_ proper-sized Bishops are all that is needed, 'Tis plain, for the Irish _half_ million who want 'em, _One-third_ of _one_ Bishop is just the right quantum.

And thus, by old c.o.c.ker's sublime Rule of Three, The Irish Church question's resolved to a T; Keeping always that excellent maxim in view, That, in saving men's souls, we must save money too.

Nay, if--as St. Roden complains is the case-- The half million of _soul_ is decreasing apace, The demand, too, for _bishop_ will also fall off, Till the _t.i.the_ of one, taken in kind be enough.