Anacreontic To A Plumassier.

Fine and feathery artisan,
Best of Plumists (if you can
With your art so far presume)
Make for me a Prince's Plume--
Feathers soft and feathers rare,
Such as suits a Prince to wear.

    First thou downiest of men,
Seek me out a fine Pea-hen;
Such a Hen, so tall and grand,
As by Juno's side might stand,
If there were no cocks at hand.
Seek her feathers, soft as down,
Fit to shine on Prince's crown;
If thou canst not find them, stupid!
Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.

Ranging these in order due,
Pluck me next an old Cuckoo;
Emblem of the happy fates
Of easy, kind, cornuted mates.
Pluck him well--be sure you do--
Who wouldnt be an old Cuckoo,
Thus to have his plumage blest,
Beaming on a Royal crest?

    Bravo, Plumist!--now what bird
Shall we find for Plume the third?
You must get a learned Owl,
Bleakest of black-letter fowl--
Bigot bird that hates the light,^[1]
Foe to all that's fair and bright.
Seize his quills, (so formed to pen
Books^[2] that shun the search of men;
Books that, far from every eye,
In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,)
Stick them in between the two,
Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo.
Now you have the triple feather,
Bind the kindred stems together
With a silken tie whose hue
Once was brilliant Buff and Blue;
Sullied now--alas, how much!
Only fit for Yarmouth's touch.

    There--enough--thy task is done;
Present, worthy George's Son;
Now, beneath, in letters neat,
Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.

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

To Ladies' Eyes.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Song Of Hercules To His Daughter.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Extracts From The Diary Of A Politician.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Imitation Of The Inferno Of Dante.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Wreaths For The Ministers. An Anacreontic.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers--
Or, (if sweeter that abode)
From the King's well-odored Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.
Hither come and gayly twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who rule us,
Those who rule and (some say) fool us--
Flora, sure, will love to please
England's Household Deities!^[1]

    First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an orange lily--
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish Gifford can supply;--
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eldon's wig.

    Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool,
To crown the head of Liverpool.<...

Thomas Moore

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter VIII.

FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO ---- SKEFFINGTON, ESQ.


Come to our Fête and bring with thee
Thy newest, best embroidery.
Come to our Fête and show again
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men,
Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it;
When Brummel's self inquired "who made it?"--
When Cits came wondering from the East
And thought thee Poet Pye at least!

    Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy week
For looking pale,) with paly cheek;
Tho' more we love thy roseate days,
When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze
Full o'er thy face and amply spread,
Tips even thy whisker-tops with red--
Like the last tints of dying Day
That o'er some darkling grove delay.

    Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander,
(That lace, like Harry Alexander,
...

Thomas Moore

On Mrs. Montagues Feather-Hangings.

The birds put off their every hue
To dress a room for Montagu.
The peacock sends his heavenly dyes,
His rainbows and his starry eyes;
The pheasant plumes, which round enfold
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The cock his archd tails azure show;
And, river-blanchd, the swan his snow.
All tribes beside of Indian name,
That glossy shine, or vivid flame,
Where rises, and where sets the day,
Whateer they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gorgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage neither dashing shower,
Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower,
Shall drench again or discompose,
But, screend from every storm that blows,
It boasts a splendour ever new,
Safe with protecting Montagu.
To the same patroness resort,

William Cowper

Fum And Hum, The Two Birds Of Royalty.

One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, FUM,
Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, HUM,
In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?)
Where FUM had just come to pay HUM a short visit.--
Near akin are these Birds, tho' they differ in nation
(The breed of the HUMS is as old as creation);
Both, full-crawed Legitimates--both, birds of prey,
Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way
'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord Castlereagh.
While FUM deals in Mandarins Bonzes, Bohea,
Peers, Bishops and Punch, HUM.--are sacred to thee
So congenial their tastes, that, when FUM first did light on
The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton,
The lanterns and dragons and things round the dome
Where so like what he left, "Gad," says FUM, "I'm at home,"--
And...

Thomas Moore

Epigram On Hearing A Lady Talk Very Fast And Unintelligibly

Words upon words impetuous rush along,
And tread each other's brains out as they throng.

    *        *        *        *        *

'Admire my wife! did ever mortal eyes'
Cornuto, in a rapture, boasting cries
'Such a fine set of teeth of ivory view?
And such a fine complexion's ivory hue?
Fool! hide thy head! both her and thee we scorn:
Oft the wife's ivory makes the husband's horn.

    *        *        *        *        *

I'm told Sir Pigmy mimics me; what then?
Don't we all know that monkies mimic men?
'I cannot say your poem I admire;
It wants originality and fire;
Besides, I find it, by no means, correct;
You've written it in haste, I should suspect,'
"What! do you think me then a jackass, pray?"
'I shall think so if you so lou...

Thomas Oldham

My Aviary

Through my north window, in the wintry weather, -
My airy oriel on the river shore, -
I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together
Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar.

The gull, high floating, like a sloop unladen,
Lets the loose water waft him as it will;
The duck, round-breasted as a rustic maiden,
Paddles and plunges, busy, busy still.

I see the solemn gulls in council sitting
On some broad ice-floe pondering long and late,
While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting,
And leave the tardy conclave in debate,

Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving
Whose deeper meaning science never learns,
Till at some reverend elder's look dissolving,
The speechless senate silently adjourns.

But when along the waves the shr...

Oliver Wendell Holmes