Thomas moore collected.., p.115
Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works, page 115
2 “They,” the Bishops, “know that the primitive Church had no such Bishops. If the fourth part of the bishopric remained unto the Bishop, it were sufficient.” — On the Commandments, .
3 “Since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth, there is no work done, the people starve.” — Lat. Serm.
4 “Of whom have come all these glorious titles, styles, and pomps into the Church. But I would that I, and all my brethren, the Bishops, would leave all our styles, and write the styles of our offices,” etc. — Life of Cranmer, by Strype, Appendix.
SIR ANDREW’S DREAM.
“nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis: cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus liubent.” PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 7.
As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late,
In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate,
Being much too pious, as every one knows,
To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze,
He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man,
And I’ll tell you his dream as well as I can.
He found himself, to his great amaze,
In Charles the First’s high Tory days,
And just at the time that gravest of Courts
Had publisht its Book of Sunday Sports.1
Sunday Sports! what a thing for the ear
Of Andrew even in sleep to hear! —
It chanced to be too a Sabbath day
When the people from church were coming away;
And Andrew with horror heard this song.
As the smiling sinners flockt along; —
“Long life to the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!
“For a week of work and a Sunday of play
“Make the poor man’s life run merry away.”
“The Bishops!” quoth Andrew, “Popish, I guess,”
And he grinned with conscious holiness.
But the song went on, and, to brim the cup
Of poor Andy’s grief, the fiddles struck up!
“Come, take out the lasses — let’s have a dance —
“For the Bishops allow us to skip our fill,
“Well knowing that no one’s the more in advance
“On the road to heaven, for standing still.
“Oh! it never was meant that grim grimaces
“Should sour the cream of a creed of love;
“Or that fellows with long, disastrous faces,
“Alone should sit among cherubs above.
“Then hurrah for the Bishops, etc.
“For Sunday fun we never can fail,
“When the Church herself each sport points out; —
“There’s May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale,
“And a May-pole high to dance about.
“Or should we be for a pole hard driven,
“Some lengthy saint of aspect fell,
“With his pockets on earth and his nose in heaven,
“Will do for a May-pole just as well.
“Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!
“A week of work and a Sabbath of play
“Make the poor man’s life run merry away.”
To Andy, who doesn’t much deal in history,
This Sunday scene was a downright mystery;
And God knows where might have ended the joke,
But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke,
And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes)
That since that dream — which, one would suppose,
Should have made his godly stomach rise.
Even more than ever ‘gainst Sunday pies —
He has viewed things quite with different eyes;
Is beginning to take, on matters divine,
Like Charles and his Bishops, the sporting line —
Is all for Christians jigging in pairs,
As an interlude ‘twixt Sunday prayers: —
Nay, talks of getting Archbishop Howley
To bring in a Bill enacting duly
That all good Protestants from this date
May freely and lawfully recreate,
Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody,
With Jack in the Straw or Punch and Judy.
1 The Book of Sports drawn up by Bishop Moreton was first put forth in the reign of James I., 1618, and afterwards republished, at the advice of Laud, by Charles I., 1633, with an injunction that it should be “made public by order from the Bishops.” We find it therein declared, that “for his good people’s recreation, his Majesty’s pleasure was, that after the end of divine service they should not be disturbed, letted, or discouraged from any lawful recreations, such as dancing, either of men or women, archery for men, leaping, vaulting, or any such harmless recreations, nor having of May-games, Whitsun-ales, or Morris-dances, or setting up of May poles, or other sports therewith used.” etc.
A BLUE LOVE SONG.
TO MISS —— .
Air-”Come live with me and be my love.”
Come wed with me and we will write,
My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.
Chased from our classic souls shall be
All thoughts of vulgar progeny;
And thou shalt walk through smiling rows
Of chubby duodecimos,
While I, to match thy products nearly,
Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly.
’Tis true, even books entail some trouble;
But live productions give one double.
Correcting children is such bother, —
While printers’ devils correct the other.
Just think, my own Malthusian dear,
How much more decent ’tis to hear
From male or female — as it may be —
“How is your book?” than “How’s your baby?”
And whereas physic and wet nurses
Do much exhaust paternal purses,
Our books if rickety may go
And be well dry-nurst in the Row;
And when God wills to take them hence,
Are buried at the Row’s expense.
Besides, (as ’tis well proved by thee,
In thy own Works, vol. 93.)
The march, just now, of population
So much outscrips all moderation,
That even prolific herring-shoals
Keep pace not with our erring souls.1
Oh far more proper and well-bred
To stick to writing books instead;
And show the world how two Blue lovers
Can coalesce, like two book-covers,
(Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,)
Lettered at back and stitched together
Fondly as first the binder fixt ’em,
With naught but — literature betwixt ’em.
1 See “Ella of Garveloch.” — Garveloch being a place where there was a large herring-fishery, but where, as we are told by the author, “the people increased much faster than the produce.”
SUNDAY ETHICS.
A SCOTCH ODE.
Puir, profligate Londoners, having heard tell
That the De’il’s got amang ye, and fearing ’tis true,
We ha’ sent ye a mon wha’s a match for his spell,
A chiel o’ our ain, that the De’il himsel
Will be glad to keep clear of, ane Andrew Agnew.
So at least ye may reckon for one day entire
In ilka lang week ye’ll be tranquil eneugh,
As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire,
An’ would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire
Than pass a hale Sunday wi’ Andrew Agnew.
For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,
He’d na let a cat on the Sabbath say “mew;”
Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play,
An Phoebus himsel could na travel that day.
As he’d find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.
Only hear, in your Senate, how awfu’ he cries,
“Wae, wae to a’ sinners who boil an’ who stew!
“Wae, wae to a’ eaters o’ Sabbath baked pies,
“For as surely again shall the crust thereof rise
“In judgment against ye,” saith Andrew Agnew!
Ye may think, from a’ this, that our Andie’s the lad
To ca’ o’er the coals your nobeelity too;
That their drives, o’ a Sunday, wi’ flunkies,1 a’ clad
Like Shawmen, behind ’em, would mak the mon mad —
But he’s nae sic a noodle, our Andie Agnew.
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 shore to shore, “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 gods too blest to be polite
Gods 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 gods this speech? Ah well-a-day,
That speech so fine should be so thrown away!
In vain did this mid-gallery grandee
Assert 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 gods!
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 titheable shore;
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 shore,
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 association 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!
God 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 gods! 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 coarse 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 class of Methodists
Prince Waterloo styles “Atheists!”
But ’tis too much — the Muse turns pale,
And o’er the picture drops a veil,
Praying, God save the Goulburns all
From mad Dissenters great and small!
1 The Duke of Wellington, who styled them “the Articles of Christianity.”
A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN.
— risum tenaetis, amici
“The longer one lives, the more one learns,”
Said I, as off to sleep I went,
Bemused with thinking of Tithe concerns,
And reading a book by the Bishop of FERNS,1
On the Irish Church Establishment.
But lo! in sleep not long I lay,
When Fancy her usual tricks began,
And I found myself bewitched away
To a goodly city in Hindostan —
A city where he who dares to dine
On aught but rice is deemed a sinner;
Where sheep and kine are held divine,
And accordingly — never drest for dinner.
“But how is this?” I wondering cried —
As I walkt that city fair and wide,
And saw, in every marble street,
A row of beautiful butchers’ shops —
“What means, for men who don’t eat meat,
“This grand display of loins and chops?”
In vain I askt— ’twas plain to see
That nobody dared to answer me.
So on from street to street I strode:
And you can’t conceive how vastly odd
The butchers lookt — a roseate crew,
Inshrined in stalls with naught to do;
While some on a bench, half dozing, sat,
And the Sacred Cows were not more fat.
Still posed to think what all this scene
Of sinecure trade was meant to mean,
“And, pray,” askt I— “by whom is paid
The expense of this strange masquerade?” —
“The expense! — oh! that’s of course defrayed
(Said one of these well-fed Hecatombers)
“By yonder rascally rice-consumers.”
“What! they who mustn’t eat meat!” —
No matter —
(And while he spoke his cheeks grew fatter,)
“The rogues may munch their Paddy crop,
“But the rogues must still support our shop,
“And depend upon it, the way to treat
“Heretical stomachs that thus dissent,
“Is to burden all that won’t eat meat,
“With a costly MEAT ESTABLISHMENT.”
On hearing these words so gravely said,
With a volley of laughter loud I shook,
And my slumber fled and my dream was sped,
And I found I was lying snug in bed,
With my nose in the Bishop of FERNS’S book.
1 An indefatigable scribbler of anti-Catholic pamphlets.
THE BRUNSWICK CLUB.
A letter having been addressed to a very distinguished personage, requesting him to become the Patron of this Orange Club, a polite answer was forthwith returned, of which we have been fortunate enough to obtain a copy.
Brimstone-hall, September 1, 1828.
Private, — Lord Belzebub presents
To the Brunswick Club his compliments.
