Memorabilia Of Last Week.

MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826.


The Budget--quite charming and witty--no hearing,
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;--
Great comfort to find, tho' the speech isn't cheering,
    That all its gay auditors were every minute.

What, still more prosperity!--mercy upon us,
    "This boy'll be the death of me"--oft as, already,
Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,
    For Ruin made easy there's no one like Freddy.

TUESDAY.

Much grave apprehension exprest by the Peers,
    Lest--calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts--
The large stock of gold we're to have in three years,
    Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets!^[1]

WEDNESDAY.

Little doing--for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art
    To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table--
When the Members all meet, to make much of that part,
    With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.

It appeared, tho', to-night, that--as church-wardens yearly,
    Eat up a small baby--those cormorant sinners.
The Bankrupt Commissioners, bolt very nearly
    A moderate-sized bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners!^[2]

Nota bene--a rumor to-day, in the city,
"Mr. Robinson just has resigned"--what a pity!

The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing,
When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin:
While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty,
A murmuring Stock-dove breathed her ditty:--

Alas, poor Robin, he crowed as long
    And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;
But his note was small and the gold-finch's song
    Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
                Who'll make his shroud?

"I," said the Bank, "tho' he played me a prank,
    "While I have a rag, poor Rob shall be rolled in't,
"With many a pound I'll paper him round,
    "Like a plump rouleau--without the gold in it."

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

The Fortune-Teller.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The East Indian.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Julia Weeping.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Gayly Sounds The Castanet. (Maltese Air.)

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.

The Sinking Fund Cried.

        "Now what, we ask, is become of this Sinking Fund--these eight millions of surplus above expenditure, which were to reduce the interest of the national debt by the amount of four hundred thousand pounds annually? Where, indeed, is the Sinking Fund itself?"
        --The Times.


        Take your bell, take your bell,
        Good Crier, and tell
To the Bulls and the Bears, till their ears are stunned,
        That, lost or stolen,
        Or fallen thro' a hole in
The Treasury floor, is the Sinking Fund!

        O yes! O yes!
        Can anybody guess
What the deuce has become of this Treasury wonder?
        It has Pitt's name on't,
        All brass, in the front,
And Robinson's scrawled with a goose-quill under.

        Folks wel...

Thomas Moore

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

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 Fudges In England. Letter IV. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----.

He comes from Erin's speechful shore
Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er
    With hot effusions--hot and weak;
Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,
He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms
    To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,^[1]
Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!
Journals reserved for realms of bliss,
Being much too good to sell in this,
Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,
    Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;
And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,
    Blow all your little penny trumpets.
He comes, the reverend man, to tell
    To all who still the Church's part take,
Tales of parsonic woe, that well
    Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache:--
Of ten whole bis...

Thomas Moore

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter II. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., To The Lord Viscount Castlereagh.

Paris.

At length, my Lord, I have the bliss
To date to you a line from this
"Demoralized" metropolis;
Where, by plebeians low and scurvy,
The throne was turned quite topsy-turvy,
And Kingship, tumbled from its seat,
"Stood prostrate" at the people's feet;
Where (still to use your Lordship's tropes)
The level of obedience slopes
Upward and downward, as the stream
Of hydra faction kicks the beam!^[1]
Where the poor Palace changes masters
    Quicker than a snake its skin,
And LOUIS is rolled out on castors,
    While BONEY'S borne on shoulders in:--
But where, in every change, no doubt,
    One special good your Lordship traces,--
That 'tis the Kings alone turn out,
The Ministers sti...

Thomas Moore

A Hymn Of Welcome After The Recess.

        "animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo."


And now-cross-buns and pancakes o'er--
Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more!
    Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain!
The short eclipse of April-Day
Having (God grant it!) past away,
    Collective Wisdom, shine again!

Come, Ayes and Noes, thro' thick and thin,--
With Paddy Holmes for whipper-in,--
    Whate'er the job, prepared to back it;
Come, voters of Supplies--bestowers
Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers,
    At eighty mortal pounds the jacket!^[1]

Come--free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares--
Ye Senators of many Shares,
    Whose dreams of premium knew no boundary;
So fond of aught like Company,
That you would even have taken tea
    (Had yo...

Thomas Moore