Occasional Address For The Opening Of The New Theatre Of St. Stephen,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE PROPRIETOR IN FULL COSTUME, ON THE 24TH OF NOVEMBER, 1812.


This day a New House for your edification
We open, most thinking and right-headed nation!
Excuse the materials--tho' rotten and bad,
They're the best that for money just now could be had;
And if echo the charm of such houses should be,
You will find it shall echo my speech to a T.

    As for actors, we've got the old Company yet,
The same motley, odd, tragicomical set;
And considering they all were but clerks t'other day,
It is truly surprising how well they can play.
Our Manager,^[1] (he who in Ulster was nurst,
And sung Erin go Bragh for the galleries first,
But on finding Pitt-interest a much better thing,
Changed his note of a sudden to God save the King,)
Still wise as he's blooming and fat as he's clever,
Himself and his speeches as lengthy as ever.
Here offers you still the full use of his breath,
Your devoted and long-winded proser till death.

    You remember last season, when things went perverse on.
We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on)
One Mr. Vansittart, a good sort of person,
Who's also employed for this season to play,
In "Raising the Wind," and "the Devil to Pay."^[2]
We expect too--at least we've been plotting and planning--
To get that great actor from Liverpool, Canning;
And, as at the Circus there's nothing attracts
Like a good single combat brought in 'twixt the acts,
If the Manager should, with the help of Sir Popham,
Get up new diversions and Canning should stop 'em,
Who knows but we'll have to announce in the papers,
"Grand fight--second time--with additional capers."

    Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad,
There is plenty of each in this House to be had.
Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be,
For a dead hand at tragedy always was he;
And there never was dealer in dagger and cup,
Who so smilingly got all his tragedies up.
His powers poor Ireland will never forget,
And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet.

    So much for the actors;--for secret machinery,
Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery,
Yarmouth and Cum are the best we can find,
To transact all that trickery business behind.
The former's employed too to teach us French jigs,
Keep the whiskers in curl and look after the wigs.

    In taking my leave now, I've only to say,
A few Seats in the House, not as yet sold away,
May be had of the Manager, Pat Castlereagh.

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

Not From Thee.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Row Gently Here. (Venetian Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

A Case Of Libel.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Epitaph On A Tuft-Hunter.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Occasional Epilogue. Spoken By Mr. Cobby, In The Character Of Vapid, After The Play Of The Dramatist, At The Kilkenny Theatre.

(Entering as if to announce the Play.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night,
For the ninth time--oh accents of delight
To the poor author's ear, when three times three
With a full bumper crowns, his Comedy!
When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken,
He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken,
And sees his play-bill circulate--alas,
The only bill on which his name will pass!
Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame
Thro' box and gallery waft your well-known name,
While critic eyes the happy cast shall con,
And learned ladies spell your Dram. Person.

'Tis said our worthy Manager^[1]intends
To help my night, and he, ye know, has friends.
Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or parts,
Engagin...

Thomas Moore

Prologue To Abbey's Edition Of "She Stoops To Conquer."

In the year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy and Three,
When the GEORGES were ruling o'er Britain the free,
There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan,
By the GOLDSMITH who brought out the Good-Natur'd Man.
New-fashioned, in truth--for this play, it appears,
Dealt largely in laughter, and nothing in tears,
While the type of those days, as the learnèd will tell ye,
Was the CUMBERLAND whine or the whimper of KELLY.
So the Critics pooh-poohed, and the Actresses pouted,
And the Public were cold, and the Manager doubted;
But the Author had friends, and they all went to see it.
Shall we join them in fancy? You answer, So be it!
Imagine yourself then, good Sir, in a wig,
Either grizzle or bob--never mind, you look big.
You've a sword at your side, in your shoes there ar...

Henry Austin Dobson

A Prologue, Billet To A Company Of Players Sent With The Prologue

The enclosed prologue is formed upon the story of the secretary's not allowing you to act, unless you would pay him £300 per annum; upon which you got a license from the Lord Mayor to act as strollers.
    The prologue supposes, that upon your being forbidden to act, a company of country strollers came and hired the playhouse, and your clothes, etc. to act in.


Our set of strollers, wandering up and down,
Hearing the house was empty, came to town;
And, with a license from our good lord mayor,
Went to one Griffith, formerly a player:
Him we persuaded, with a moderate bribe,
To speak to Elrington[1] and all the tribe,
To let our company supply their places,
And hire us out their scenes, and clothes, and faces.
Is not the truth the truth? Look full on me;
I am not Elrington, n...

Jonathan Swift

Prologue. Spoken At The Opening Of The New House, March 26, 1674.

    A plain-built^[1] house, after so long a stay,
    Will send you half unsatisfied away;
    When, fallen from your expected pomp, you find
    A bare convenience only is design'd.
    You, who each day can theatres behold,
    Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,
    Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
    And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.
    Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
    And a plain suit, since we can make but one,
    Is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known.
    They, who are by your favours wealthy made,
    With mighty sums may carry on the trade:
    We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
    With our small stock to humble roofs retire:
    Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.
 ...

John Dryden

Prologue To "The Mistakes." By Joseph Harris, Comedian, 1690. (Written By Some Other.)

[Enter Mr Bright.]

Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no Prologue to be had
to-day; our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece;
as bald as one of you young beaux, without your periwig. I left
our young poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and
cursing somebody that has deceived him.

[Enter Mr Bowen.]

Hold your prating to the audience: here is honest Mr Williams,
just come in, half mellow, from the Rose Tavern. He swears he is
inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too,
either with a prologue of his own or something like one. Oh,
here he comes to his trial, at all adventures: for my part I
wish him a good deliverance.

[Exeunt Mr Bright and Mr Bowen.]

[Enter Mr William...

John Dryden

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