Impromptu. Upon Being Obliged To Leave A Pleasant Party, From The Want Of A Pair Of Breeches To Dress For Dinner In.

Between Adam and me the great difference is,
    Tho' a paradise each has been forced to resign,
That he never wore breeches, till turned out of his,
    While for want of my breeches, I'm banisht from mine.

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

Tory Pledges.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Beauty And Song.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Ballad Stanzas.

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.

From The Hon. Henry ----, To Lady Emma ----.

Paris, March 30,1833.


You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle,
How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;
And the truth is,--as truth you will have, my sweet railer,--
    There are two worthy persons I always feel loath
To take leave of at starting,--my mistress and tailor,--
    As somehow one always has scenes with them both;
The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears,
    She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney,--
Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,
    A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey.

But to come to the point, tho' you think, I dare say.
That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,
'Pon honor you're wrong;--such a mere bagatelle
    As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fea...

Thomas Moore

Impromptu To Madame C ---- Written At Paris, Upon Her Appearing Equally Modestly And Elegantly Dressed, Amidst The Semi-Nakedness Of The Rest Of The Female Fashionables.

Whilst, in a dress that one might swear
The whole was made of woven air,
Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway
Over the giddy and the gay
(Who think, by showing all their charms,
Lovers will fly into their arms),
In thee shall Wit and Virtue find
A friend more genial to their mind;
And Modesty shall gain in thee
A surer, chaster, victory.

John Carr

Impromptu, To Miss Ainslie.

    Fair maid, you need not take the hint,
        Nor idle texts pursue:-
    'Twas guilty sinners that he meant,
        Not angels such as you!

Robert Burns

Extracts From The Diary Of A Politician.

Wednesday.

Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now--
Met the old yellow chariot^[1] and made a low bow.
This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,
But got such a look--oh! 'twas black as the devil!
How unlucky!--incog. he was travelling about,
And I like a noodle, must go find him out.
Mem.--when next by the old yellow chariot I ride,
To remember there is nothing princely inside.

Thursday.

At Levee to-day made another sad blunder--
What can be come over me lately, I wonder?
The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life
He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife--
"Fine weather," says he--to which I, who must prate,
Answered, "Yes, Sir, but changeable...

Thomas Moore

Impromptu. After A Visit To Mrs. ----, Of Montreal.

'Twas but for a moment--and yet in that time
    She crowded the impressions of many an hour:
Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime,
    Which waked every feeling at once into flower.

Oh! could we have borrowed from Time but a day,
    To renew such impressions again and again,
The things we should look and imagine and say
    Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then.

What we had not the leisure or language to speak,
    We should find some more spiritual mode of revealing,
And, between us, should feel just as much in a week
    As others would take a millennium in feeling.

Thomas Moore

Horace, Ode XXXVIII. Lib. I. A Fragment.

        persico odi, puer, adparatus;
        displicent nexae philyra coronae;
        mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum
            sera moretur.


TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROBE.


Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nicknackeries.
Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries--
Six by the Horse-Guards!--old Georgy is late--
But come--lay the table-cloth--zounds! do not wait,
Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,
At which of his places Old Rose is delaying!

Thomas Moore