The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 235

But, as fractions imply that we'd have to dissect, And to cutting up Bishops I strongly object.

We've a small, fractious prelate whom well we could spare, Who has just the same decimal worth, to a hair, And, not to leave Ireland too much in the lurch.

We'll let her have Exeter, _sole_, as her Church.

LES HOMMES AUTOMATES.

1834.

"We are persuaded that this our artificial man will not only walk and speak and perform most of the outward functions of animal life, but (being wound up once a week) will perhaps reason as well as most of your country parsons."--"_Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus_,"

chap. xii.

It being an object now to meet With Parsons that don?t want to eat, Fit men to fill those Irish rectories, Which soon will have but scant refectories, It has been suggested,--lest that Church Should all at once be left in the lurch For want of reverend men endued With this gift of never requiring food,-- To try, by way of experiment, whether There couldn?t be made of wood and leather,[1]

(Howe'er the notion may sound chimerical,) Jointed figures, not _lay_,[2] but clerical, Which, wound up carefully once a week, Might just like parsons look and speak, Nay even, if requisite, reason too, As well as most Irish parsons do.

The experiment having succeeded quite, (Whereat those Lords must much delight, Who've shown, by stopping the Church's food, They think it isn?t for her spiritual good To be served by parsons of flesh and blood,) The Patentees of this new invention Beg leave respectfully to mention, They now are enabled to produce An ample supply for present use, Of these reverend pieces of machinery, Ready for vicarage, rectory, deanery, Or any such-like post of skill That wood and leather are fit to fill.

N.B.--In places addicted to arson, We can?t recommend a wooden parson: But if the Church any such appoints, They'd better at least have iron joints.

In parts, not much by Protestants haunted, A figure to _look at_'s all that's wanted-- A block in black, to eat and sleep, Which (now that the eating's o'er) comes cheap.

P.S.--Should the Lords, by way of a treat, Permit the clergy again to eat, The Church will of course no longer need Imitation-parsons that never feed; And these _wood_ creatures of ours will sell For secular purposes just as well-- Our Beresfords, turned to bludgeons stout, May, 'stead of beating their own about, Be knocking the brains of Papists out; While our smooth O'Sullivans, by all means, Should transmigrate into _turning_ machines.

[1] The materials of which those Nuremberg Savans, mentioned by Scriblerus, constructed their artificial man.

[2] The wooden models used by painters are, it is well known, called "lay figures".

HOW TO MAKE ONE'S SELF A PEER.

ACCORDING TO THE NEWEST RECEIPT AS DISCLOSED IN A LATE HERALDIC WORK,[1]

1834.

Choose some t.i.tle that's dormant--the Peerage hath many-- Lord Baron of Shamdos sounds n.o.bly as any.

Next, catch a dead cousin of said defunct Peer, And marry him, off hand, in some given year, To the daughter of somebody,--no matter who,-- Fig, the grocer himself, if you're hard run, will do; For, the Medici _pills_ still in heraldry tell, And why shouldn't _lollypops_ quarter as well?

Thus, having your couple, and one a lord's cousin, Young materials for peers may be had by the dozen; And 'tis hard if, inventing each small mother's son of 'em, You can't somehow manage to prove _yourself_ one of 'em.

Should registers, deeds and such matters refractory, Stand in the way of this lord-manufactory, I've merely to hint, as a secret auricular, One _grand_ rule of enterprise,--_don't_ be particular.

A man who once takes such a jump at n.o.bility, Must _not_ mince the matter, like folks of nihility, But clear thick and thin with true lordly agility.

'Tis true, to a would-be descendant from Kings, Parish-registers sometimes are troublesome things; As oft, when the vision is near brought about, Some goblin, in shape of a grocer, grins out; Or some barber, perhaps, with my Lord mingles bloods, And one's patent of peerage is left in the suds.

But there _are_ ways--when folks are resolved to be lords-- Of expurging even troublesome parish records.

What think ye of scissors? depend on't no heir Of a Shamdos should go unsupplied with a pair, As whate'er _else_ the learned in such lore may invent, Your scissors does wonders in proving descent.

Yes, poets may sing of those terrible shears With which Atropos snips off both b.u.mpkins and peers, But they're naught to that weapon which shines in the hands Of some would-be Patricians, when proudly he stands O'er the careless churchwarden's baptismal array, And sweeps at each cut generations away.

By some babe of old times is his peerage resisted?

One snip,--and the urchin hath _never_ existed!

Does some marriage, in days near the Flood, interfere With his one sublime object of being a Peer?

Quick the shears at once nullify bridegroom and bride,-- No such people have ever lived, married or died!

Such the newest receipt for those high minded elves, Who've a fancy for making great lords of themselves.

Follow this, young aspirer who pant'st for a peerage, Take S--m for thy model and B--z for thy steerage, Do all and much worse than old Nicholas Flam does, And--_who_ knows but you'll be Lord Baron of Shamdos?

[1] The claim to the barony of Chandos (if I recollect right) advanced by the late Sir Egerinton Brydges.

THE DUKE IS THE LAD.

Air.--"A master I have, and I am his man, Galloping dreary dun."

"_Castle of Andalusia_."

The Duke is the lad to frighten a la.s.s.

Galloping, dreary duke; The Duke is the lad to frighten a la.s.s, He's an ogre to meet, and the devil to pa.s.s, With his charger prancing, Grim eye glancing, Chin, like a Mufti, Grizzled and tufty, Galloping, dreary Duke.

Ye misses, beware of the neighborhood Of this galloping dreary Duke; Avoid him, all who see no good In being run o'er by a Prince of the Blood.

For, surely, no nymph is Fond of a grim phiz.

And of the married, Whole crowds have miscarried At sight of this dreary Duke.

EPISTLE

FROM ERASMUS ON EARTH TO CICERO IN THE SHADES.

Southampton.