A Ghost Story. To The Air Of "Unfortunate Miss Bailey."

Not long in bed had Lyndhurst lain,
    When, as his lamp burned dimly,
The ghosts of corporate bodies slain,^[1]
    Stood by his bedside grimly.
Dead aldermen who once could feast,
    But now, themselves, are fed on,
And skeletons of mayors deceased,
    This doleful chorus led on:--
                Oh Lord Lyndhurst,
                "Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst,
                    "Corpses we,
                    "All burkt by thee,
                "Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst!"

"Avaunt, ye frights!" his Lordship cried,
    "Ye look most glum and whitely."
"Ah, Lyndhurst dear!" the frights replied,
    "You've used us unpolitely.
"And now, ungrateful man! to drive
    "Dead bodies from your door so,
"Who quite corrupt enough, alive,
    "You've made by death still more so.
                "Oh, Ex-Chancellor,
            "Destructive Ex-Chancellor,
                "See thy work,
                "Thou second Burke,
            "Destructive Ex-Chancellor!"

Bold Lyndhurst then, whom naught could keep
    Awake or surely that would,
Cried "Curse you all"--fell fast asleep--
    And dreamt of "Small v. Attwood."
While, shockt, the bodies flew downstairs,
    But courteous in their panic
Precedence gave to ghosts of mayors,
    And corpses aldermanic,
            Crying, "Oh, Lord Lyndhurst,
            "That terrible Lord Lyndhurst,
                "Not Old Scratch
                "Himself could match
            "That terrible Lord Lyndhurst."

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

Weep, Children Of Israel. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Imitation Of The Inferno Of Dante.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Extracts From The Diary Of A Politician.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Night Dance.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Imitation Of The Inferno Of Dante.

        "Cosi quel fiato gli spiriti mali
        Di quà, di là, di giu, di su gli mena."


        Inferno, canto 5.


I turned my steps and lo! a shadowy throng
Of ghosts came fluttering towards me--blown along,
Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms,
By many a fitful gust that thro' their forms
Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff,
And puft as--tho' they'd never puff enough.

"Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquired
Of these poor ghosts, who, tattered, tost, and tired
With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand
On their lean legs while answering my demand.
"We once were authors"--thus the Sprite, who led
This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said--
"Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter,
"Who, early sm...

Thomas Moore

Thoughts On The Late Destructive Propositions Of The Tories.[1] By A Common-Councilman.

I sat me down in my easy chair,
    To read, as usual, the morning papers;
But--who shall describe my look of despair,
    When I came to Lefroy's "destructive" capers!
That he--that, of all live men, Lefroy
Should join in the cry "Destroy, destroy!"
Who, even when a babe, as I've heard said,
On Orange conserve was chiefly fed,
And never, till now, a movement made
That wasnt manfully retrograde!
Only think--to sweep from the light of day
Mayors, maces, criers and wigs away;
To annihilate--never to rise again--
A whole generation of aldermen,
Nor leave them even the accustomed tolls,
To keep together their bodies and souls!--
At a time too when snug posts and places
    Are falling away from us one by one,
Crash--crash--like the mummy-cases

Thomas Moore

A Vision. By The Author Of "Christabel."

"Up!" said the Spirit and ere I could pray
One hasty orison, whirled me away
To a Limbo, lying--I wist not where--
Above or below, in earth or air;
For it glimmered o'er with a doubtful light,
One couldn't say whether 'twas day or night;
And 'twas crost by many a mazy track,
One didn't know how to get on or back;
And I felt like a needle that's going astray
(With its one eye out) thro' a bundle of hay;
When the Spirit he grinned, and whispered me,
"Thou'rt now in the Court of Chancery!"

Around me flitted unnumbered swarms
Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms;
(Like bottled-up babes that grace the room
Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)--
All of them, things half-killed in rearing;
Some were lame--some wanted hearing;

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter VIII. From Bob Fudge, Esq., To The Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan.

Tuesday evening,

I much regret, dear Reverend Sir,
    I could not come to * * * to meet you;
But this curst gout wont let me stir--
    Even now I but by proxy greet you;
As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is,
Owes all to an amanuensis.
Most other scourges of disease
Reduce men to extremities--
But gout wont leave one even these.

From all my sister writes, I see
That you and I will quite agree.
I'm a plain man who speak the truth,
    And trust you'll think me not uncivil,
When I declare that from my youth
    I've wisht your country at the devil:
Nor can I doubt indeed from all
    I've heard of your high patriot fame--
From every word your lips let fall--
    That you most truly wish the same.
It p...

Thomas Moore

The Execution: A Sporting Anecdote Hon. Mr. Sucklethumbkin's Story

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two,
He had nothing to do,
So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim
Was clean of limb,
His boots were polish'd, his jacket was trim
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,
He stood in his stockings just four foot ten
And he ask'd, as he held the door on the swing,
'Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?'

My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said,
'Malibran's dead,
Duvernay's fled,
Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead;
Tiger Tim, come tell me true,
What may a Nobleman find to do?

Tim look'd up, and Tim look'd down,
He paused, and he put on a though...

Richard Harris Barham

Mary's Ghost. - A Pathetic Ballad.

'Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary's ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bedside.

O William dear! O William dear!
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.

I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute;
But though I went to my long home,
I didn't stay long in it.

The body-snatchers they have come,
And made a snatch at me;
It's very hard them kind of men
Won't let a body be!

You thought that I was buried deep,
Quite decent-like and chary,
But from her grave in Mary-bone,
They've come and boned your Mary.

The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Dr. Vyse;
And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospita...

Thomas Hood