Copy Of An Intercepted Despatch.

FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS SATANIC MAJESTY.

St. James's Street, July 1, 1826.


Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch
    An official young demon, preparing to go,
Ready booted and spurred, with a black-leg despatch
    From the Hell here at Crockford's, to our Hell below--

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic,
    To say that first having obeyed your directions
And done all the mischief I could in "the Panic,"
    My next special care was to help the Elections.

Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul,
    When every good Christian tormented his brother,
And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal,
    From all coming down, ready grilled by each other;

Remembering besides how it pained thee to part
    With the old Penal Code--that chef-d'oeuvre of Law,
In which (tho' to own it too modest thou art)
    We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;

I thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive,
    (Tho' Eldon, with help from your Highness would try,)
'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive,
    Could we get up a thundering No-Popery cry;--

That yell which when chorused by laics and clerics,
    So like is to ours, in its spirit and tone.
That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics,
    To think that Religion should make it her own.

So, having sent down for the original notes
    Of the chorus as sung by your Majesty's choir
With a few pints of lava to gargle the throats
    Of myself and some others who sing it "with fire,"^[1]

Thought I, "if the Marseillais Hymn could command
    "Such audience, tho' yelled by a Sans-culotte crew
"What wonders shall we do, who've men in our band,
    "That not only wear breeches but petticoats too."

Such then were my hopes, but with sorrow, your Highness,
    I'm forced to confess--be the cause what it will,
Whether fewness of voices or hoarseness or shyness,--
    Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill.

The truth is no placeman now knows his right key,
    The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various;
And certain base voices, that lookt for a fee
    At the York music-meeting now think it precarious.

Even some of our Reverends might have been warmer,--
    Tho' one or two capital roarers we've had;
Doctor Wise^[2]is for instance a charming performer,
    And Huntingdon Maberley's yell was not bad!

Altogether however the thing was not hearty;--
    Even Eldon allows we got on but so so;
And when next we attempt a No-Popery party,
    We must, please your Highness, recruit from below.

But hark! the young Black-leg is cracking his whip--
    Excuse me, Great Sir-there's no time to be civil;--
The next opportunity shan't be let slip,
    But, till then,
        I'm, in haste, your most dutiful
            DEVIL.

    July, 1826

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

Hat Versus Wig.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oft, In The Stilly Night. (Scotch Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Love And Reason.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Notions On Reform. By A Modern Reformer.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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

FROM THE RIGHT HON. PATRICK DUIGENAN TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN NICHOL.


Last week, dear Nichol, making merry
At dinner with our Secretary,
When all were drunk or pretty near
(The time for doing business here),
Says he to me, "Sweet Bully Bottom!
"These Papist dogs--hiccup--'od rot 'em!--
"Deserve to be bespattered--hiccup--
"With all the dirt even you can pick up.
"But, as the Prince (here's to him--fill--
"Hip, hip, hurra!)--is trying still
"To humbug them with kind professions,
"And as you deal in strong expressions--
"Rogue"--"traitor"--hiccup--and all that--
"You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat!--
"You must indeed--hiccup--that's flat."--

Yes--"muzzled" was the word Sir John--
These fools have clapt a muzzle o...

Thomas Moore

Intended Tribute To The Author Of An Article In The Last Number Of The Quarterly Review, Entitled "Romanism In Ireland."

It glads us much to be able to say,
That a meeting is fixt for some early day,
Of all such dowagers--he or she--
(No matter the sex, so they dowagers be,)
Whose opinions concerning Church and State
From about the time of the Curfew date--
Stanch sticklers still for days bygone,
And admiring them for their rust alone--
To whom if we would a leader give,
Worthy their tastes conservative,
We need but some mummy-statesman raise,
Who was pickled and potted in Ptolemy's days;
For that's the man, if waked from his shelf,
To conserve and swaddle this world like himself.
Such, we're happy to state, are the old he-dames
Who've met in committee and given their names
(In good hieroglyphics), with kind intent
To pay some handsome com...

Thomas Moore

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter VII. From Phelim Connor To--.

Before we sketch the Present--let us cast
A few, short, rapid glances to the Past.

When he, who had defied all Europe's strength,
Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;--
When, loosed as if by magic from a chain
That seemed like Fate's the world was free again,
And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight,
The cause of Kings, for once, the cause of Right;--
Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those
Who sighed for justice--liberty--repose,
And hoped the fall of one great vulture's nest
Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.
All then was bright with promise;--Kings began
To own a sympathy with suffering Man,
And man was grateful; Patriots of the South
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,
And heard, like accents thawed in ...

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

Epistle From Captain Rock To Lord Lyndhurst.

Dear Lyndhurst,--you'll pardon my making thus free,--
But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we,
Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,
Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private--
Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,
Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet,
But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught her
To love more than meat, drink, or clothing--hot water.

All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it,
Is simply, that you make the law and I break it;
And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two
Played so well into each other's hands as we do;
Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture,
Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to fracture.
Not Birmingham's...

Thomas Moore

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

DEDICATION. TO STEPHEN WOOLRICHE, ESQ.


MY DEAR WOOLRICHE,--

It is now about seven years since I promised (and I grieve to think it is almost as long since we met) to dedicate to you the very first Book, of whatever size or kind I should publish. Who could have thought that so many years would elapse, without my giving the least signs of life upon the subject of this important promise? Who could have imagined that a volume of doggerel, after all, would be the first offering that Gratitude would lay upon the shrine of Friendship?

If you continue, however, to be as much interested about me and my pursuits as formerly, you will be happy to hear that doggerel is not my only occupation; but that I am preparing to throw my name to the Swans of the Temple of Immortality, leaving it of course to the sa...

Thomas Moore