Recent Dialogue.

A Bishop and a bold dragoon,
    Both heroes in their way,
Did thus, of late, one afternoon,
    Unto each other say:--
"Dear bishop," quoth the brave huzzar,
    "As nobody denies
"That you a wise logician are,
    "And I am--otherwise,
"'Tis fit that in this question, we
    "Stick each to his own art--
"That yours should be the sophistry,
    "And mine the fighting part.
"My creed, I need not tell you, is
    "Like that of Wellington,
"To whom no harlot comes amiss,
    "Save her of Babylon;
"And when we're at a loss for words,
    "If laughing reasoners flout us,
"For lack of sense we'll draw our swords--
    "The sole thing sharp about us."--

"Dear bold dragoon," the bishop said,
    "'Tis true for war thou art meant;
"And reasoning--bless that dandy head!
    "Is not in thy department.
"So leave the argument to me--
    "And, when my holy labor
"Hath lit the fires of bigotry,
    "Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre.
"From pulpit and from sentrybox,
    "We'll make our joint attacks,
"I at the head of my Cassocks,
    "And you, of your Cossacks.
"So here's your health, my brave huzzar,
    "My exquisite old fighter--
"Success to bigotry and war,
    "The musket and the mitre!"
Thus prayed the minister of heaven--
    While York, just entering then,
Snored out (as if some Clerk had given
    His nose the cue) "Amen."

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 Fancy Fair.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Tis Gone, And For Ever.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Where Is Your Dwelling, Ye Sainted? (Air.--Hasse.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Long Years Have Past.

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.

Rival Topics.[1] An Extravaganza.

Oh Wellington and Stephenson,
    Oh morn and evening papers,
Times, Herald, Courier, Globe, and Sun,
When will ye cease our ears to stun
    With these two heroes' capers?
Still "Stephenson" and "Wellington,"
    The everlasting two!--
Still doomed, from rise to set of sun,
To hear what mischief one has done,
    And t'other means to do:--
What bills the banker past to friends,
    But never meant to pay;
What Bills the other wight intends,
    As honest, in their way;--
Bills, payable at distant sight,
    Beyond the Grecian kalends,
When all good deeds will come to light,
When Wellington will do what's right,
    And Rowland pay his balance.

To catch the banker all have sought,
    But still the r...

Thomas Moore

Stanzas Written In Anticipation Of Defeat.

^[1]


Go seek for some abler defenders of wrong,
    If we must run the gantlet thro' blood and expense;
Or, Goths as ye are, in your multitude strong,
    Be content with success and pretend not to sense.

If the words of the wise and the generous are vain,
    If Truth by the bowstring must yield up her breath,
Let Mutes do the office--and spare her the pain
    Of an Inglis or Tyndal to talk her to death.

Chain, persecute, plunder--do all that you will--
    But save us, at least, the old womanly lore
Of a Foster, who, dully prophetic of ill,
    Is at once the two instruments, AUGUR^[2] and BORE.

Bring legions of Squires--if they'll only be mute--
    And array their thick heads against reason and ...

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

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

Wo! Wo!

^[1]


Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it--
    That beautiful Light which is now on its way;
Which beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet,
    Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!

Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee!
    How formed to all tastes are thy various employs.
The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee;
    The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.

Wo, wo to the man who such doings would smother!--
    On, Luther of Bavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy!
With whip in one hand and with Bible in t'other,
    Like Mungo's tormentor, both "preachee and floggee."

Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way;
    Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition,
Popt Shakespeare, 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