Ode To Don Miguel.

        Et tu, Brute!


1828.^[1]


What! Miguel, not patriotic! oh, fy!
    After so much good teaching 'tis quite a take-in, Sir;
First schooled as you were under Metternich's eye,
    And then (as young misses say) "finisht" at Windsor!^[2]

I ne'er in my life knew a case that was harder;--
    Such feasts as you had when you made us a call!
Three courses each day from his Majesty's larder,--
    And now to turn absolute Don after all!!

Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter
    Of each thing they write suit the way that they dine,
Roast sirloin for Epic, broiled devils for Satire,
    And hotchpotch and trifle for rhymes such as mine.

That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt;--
    Great Despots on bouilli served up à la Russe,^[3]
Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout,
    And your Viceroy of Hanover always on goose.

Some Dons too have fancied (tho' this may be fable)
    A dish rather dear, if in cooking they blunder it;--
Not content with the common hot meat on a table,
    They're partial (eh, Mig?) to a dish of cold under it!^[4]

No wonder a Don of such appetites found
    Even Windsor's collations plebeianly plain;
Where the dishes most high that my Lady sends round
    Are here Maintenon cutlets and soup à la Reine.

Alas! that a youth with such charming beginnings,
    Should sink all at once to so sad a conclusion,
And what is still worse, throw the losings and winnings
    Of worthies on 'Change into so much confusion!

The Bulls, in hysterics--the Bears just as bad--
    The few men who have, and the many who've not tick,
All shockt to find out that that promising lad,
    Prince Metternich's pupil, is--not patriotic!

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

Lying.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Anacreontic.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Wreath And The Chain.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Fairest! Put On Awhile.

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.

Lines On The Departure Of Lord Castlereagh And Stewart For The Continent.

^[1]


        at Paris^[2] et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis.
        vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas.
        OVID. Metam. lib. xiii. v. 202.


Go, Brothers in wisdom--go, bright pair of Peers,
    And my Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!
The one, the best lover we have--of his years,
    And the other Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.

Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile
    Of the Misses that love and the monarchs that prize thee;
Forget Mrs. Angelo Taylor awhile,
    And all tailors but him who so well dandifies thee.

Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff,
    Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart thee,
But show the young...

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

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

Parody Of A Celebrated Letter.

^[1]


At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night
When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by;
And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do
Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.

        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
I meant before now to have sent you this Letter,
But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better
To wait till the Irish affairs are decided--
(That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided,
With all due appearance of thought and digestion)--
For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question,
I th...

Thomas Moore

Cupid's Lottery.

A lottery, a Lottery,
In Cupid's court there used to be;
        Two roguish eyes
        The highest prize
In Cupid's scheming Lottery;
        And kisses, too,
        As good as new,
Which weren't very hard to win,
        For he who won
        The eyes of fun
Was sure to have the kisses in
            A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

This Lottery, this Lottery,
In Cupid's court went merrily,
        And Cupid played
        A Jewish trade
In this his scheming Lottery;
        For hearts, we're told,
        In shares he sold
To many a fond believing drone,
        And cut the hearts
        In sixteen parts
So well, each thought the whole his own.
    Chor.--A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

           ...

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