Dick * * * *, A Character.

Of various scraps and fragments built,
    Borrowed alike from fools and wits,
Dick's mind was like a patchwork quilt,
    Made up of new, old, motley bits--
Where, if the Co. called in their shares,
    If petticoats their quota got
And gowns were all refunded theirs,
    The quilt would look but shy, God wot.

And thus he still, new plagiaries seeking,
    Reversed ventriloquism's trick,
For, 'stead of Dick thro' others speaking,
    'Twas others we heard speak thro' Dick.
A Tory now, all bounds exceeding,
    Now best of Whigs, now worst of rats;
One day with Malthus, foe to breeding,
    The next with Sadler, all for brats.

Poor Dick!--and how else could it be?
    With notions all at random caught,
A sort of mental fricassee,
    Made up of legs and wings of thought--
The leavings of the last Debate, or
    A dinner, yesterday, of wits,
Where Dick sate by and, like a waiter,
    Had the scraps for perquisites.

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

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXVII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Here's The Bower.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Summer Webs.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Say, What Shall We Dance?

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Tom And Dick[1]

Tim[2] and Dick had equal fame,
    And both had equal knowledge;
Tom could write and spell his name,
    But Dick had seen the college.

Dick a coxcomb, Tom was mad,
    And both alike diverting;
Tom was held the merrier lad,
    But Dick the best at farting.

Dick would cock his nose in scorn,
    But Tom was kind and loving;
Tom a footboy bred and born,
    But Dick was from an oven.[3]

Dick could neatly dance a jig,
    But Tom was best at borees;
Tom would pray for every Whig,
    And Dick curse all the Tories.

Dick would make a woful noise,
    And scold at an election;
Tom huzza'd the blackguard boys,
    And held them in subjection.

Tom could move with lordly grace,
    Dick nimbly skipt the gutter;<...

Jonathan Swift

Dick's Variety

Dull uniformity in fools
I hate, who gape and sneer by rules;
You, Mullinix, and slobbering C -    -
Who every day and hour the same are
That vulgar talent I despise
Of pissing in the rabble's eyes.
And when I listen to the noise
Of idiots roaring to the boys;
To better judgment still submitting,
I own I see but little wit in:
Such pastimes, when our taste is nice,
Can please at most but once or twice.
    But then consider Dick, you'll find
His genius of superior kind;
He never muddles in the dirt,
Nor scours the streets without a shirt;
Though Dick, I dare presume to say,
Could do such feats as well as they.
Dick I could venture everywhere,
Let the boys pelt him if they dare,
He'd have them tried at the assizes
For priests and jesuit...

Jonathan Swift

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter III. From Mr. Bob Fudge To Richard ----, Esq.

Oh Dick! you may talk of your writing and reading,
Your Logic and Greek, but there's nothing like feeding;
And this is the place for it, DICKY, you dog,
Of all places on earth--the headquarters of Prog!
Talk of England--her famed Magna Charta, I swear, is
A humbug, a flam, to the Carte^[1] at old VÉRY'S;
And as for your Juries--who would not set o'er 'em
A Jury of Tasters, with woodcocks before 'em?
Give CARTWRIGHT his Parliaments, fresh every year;
But those friends of short Commons would never do here;
And, let ROMILLY speak as he will on the question.
No Digest of Law's like the laws of digestion!

By the by, DICK, I fatten--but n'importe for that,
'Tis the mode--your Legitimates always get fat.
There's the REG...

Thomas Moore

Fragment Of A Character.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last;
    Long as he breathed the vital air,
Nothing throughout all Europe past
    In which Ned hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out,
    Whatever statesmen did or said,
If not exactly brought about,
    'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With Nap, if Russia went to war,
    'Twas owing, under Providence,
To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar--
    (Vide his pamphlet--price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo--
    As all but Frenchmen think she was--
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
    Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news--no envoy's bag
    E'er past so many secrets thro' it;
Scarcely a telegraph could wag
    Its wooden finger, but N...

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter I. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----; Curate Of ----, In Ireland.

Who d' ye think we've got here?--quite reformed from the giddy.
    Fantastic young thing that once made such a noise--
Why, the famous Miss Fudge--that delectable Biddy,
    Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,
In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs--
    Such a thing as no rainbow hath colors to paint;
Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,
    And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

Poor "Pa" hath popt off--gone, as charity judges,
To some choice Elysium reserved for the Fudges;
And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations
From some much revered and much palsied relations,
Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,--
Age, thirty, or thereabouts--stature six feet,
And warranted godly--to make all complete.

Thomas Moore

A Characterless

Half Whig, half Tory, like those mid-way things,
'Twixt bird and beast, that by mistake have wings;
A mongrel Stateman, 'twixt two factions nurst,
Who, of the faults of each, combines the worst--
The Tory's loftiness, the Whigling's sneer,
The leveller's rashness, and the bigot's fear:
The thirst for meddling, restless still to show
How Freedom's clock, repaired by Whigs, will go;
The alarm when others, more sincere than they,
Advance the hands to the true time of day.

By Mother Church, high-fed and haughty dame,
The boy was dandled, in his dawn of fame;
Listening, she smiled, and blest the flippant tongue
On which the fate of unborn tithe-pigs hung.
Ah! who shall paint the grandam's grim dismay,
When loose Reform enticed her boy away;
When shockt she he...

Thomas Moore