Resolutions Passed At A Late Meeting Of Reverends And Right Reverends.

Resolved--to stick to every particle
Of every Creed and every Article;
Reforming naught, or great or little,
We'll stanchly stand by every tittle,
And scorn the swallow of that soul
Which cannot boldly bolt the whole.^[1]
Resolved that tho' St. Athanasius
In damning souls is rather spacious--
Tho' wide and far his curses fall,
Our Church "hath stomach for them all;"
And those who're not content with such,
May e'en be damned ten times as much.

Resolved--such liberal souls are we--
Tho' hating Nonconformity,
We yet believe the cash no worse is
That comes from Nonconformist purses.
Indifferent whence the money reaches
The pockets of our reverend breeches,
To us the Jumper's jingling penny
Chinks with a tone as sweet as any;
And even our old friends Yea and Nay
May thro' the nose for ever pray,
If also thro' the nose they'll pay.

Resolved that Hooper,^[2] Latimer,^[3]
And Cranmer,^[4] all extremely err,
In taking such a low-bred view
Of what Lords Spiritual ought to do:--
All owing to the fact, poor men,
That Mother Church was modest then,
Nor knew what golden eggs her goose,
The Public, would in time produce.
One Pisgah peep at modern Durham
To far more lordly thoughts would stir 'em.

Resolved that when we Spiritual Lords
Whose income just enough affords
To keep our Spiritual Lordships cosey,
Are told by Antiquarians prosy
How ancient Bishops cut up theirs,
Giving the poor the largest shares--
Our answer is, in one short word,
We think it pious but absurd.
Those good men made the world their debtor,
But we, the Church reformed, know better;
And taking all that all can pay,
Balance the account the other way.

Resolved our thanks profoundly due are
To last month's Quarterly Reviewer,
Who proves by arguments so clear
(One sees how much he holds per year)
That England's Church, tho' out of date,
Must still be left to lie in state,
As dead, as rotten and as grand as
The mummy of King Osymandyas,
All pickled snug--the brains drawn out--
With costly cerements swathed about,--
And "Touch me not," those words terrific,
Scrawled o'er her in good hieroglyphic.

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

Stanzas.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Fragments Of College Exercises.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

In Myrtle Wreaths. By Alcaeus.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Enigma.

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.

Reflections. Addressed To The Author Of The Article Of The Church In The Last Number Of The Quarterly Review.

I'm quite of your mind;--tho' these Pats cry aloud
    That they've got "too much Church," 'tis all nonsense and stuff;
For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed
    That even too much of it's not quite enough.

Ay! dose them with parsons, 'twill cure all their ills;--
    Copy Morrison's mode when from pill-box undaunted he
Pours thro' the patient his black-coated pills,
    Nor cares what their quality, so there's but quantity.

I verily think 'twould be worth England's while
    To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether
'Twould not be as well to give up the green isle
    To the care, wear and tear of the Church altogether.

The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant;
    The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet,^[1]<...

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter VI. From Miss Biddy Fudge, To Mrs. Elizabeth ----.

How I grieve you're not with us!--pray, come, if you can,
Ere we're robbed of this dear, oratorical man,
Who combines in himself all the multiple glory
Of, Orangeman, Saint, quondam Papist and Tory;--
(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,
The best sort of brass was, in old times, compounded.)--
The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly,
All fused down, in brogue so deliciously oddly!
In short, he's a dear--and such audiences draws,
Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause,
As can't but do good to the Protestant cause.

Poor dear Irish Church!--he today sketched a view
Of her history and prospect, to me at least new,
And which (if it takes as it ought) must arouse
The whole Christian w...

Thomas Moore

Song Of The Departing Spirit Of Tithe.

        "The parting Genius is with sighing sent."
        MILTON.


It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er;
I hear a Voice, from shore to shore,
From Dunfanaghy to Baltimore,
And it saith, in sad, parsonic tone,
"Great Tithe and Small are dead and gone!"

Even now I behold your vanishing wings,
Ye Tenths of all conceivable things,
Which Adam first, as Doctors deem,
Saw, in a sort of night-mare dream,^[1]
After the feast of fruit abhorred--
First indigestion on record!--
Ye decimate ducks, ye chosen chicks,
Ye pigs which, tho' ye be Catholics,
Or of Calvin's most select depraved,
In the Church must have your bacon saved;--
Ye fields, where Labor counts his sheaves,
And, whatsoever himself believes,
Must bow to t...

Thomas Moore

Intended Tribute To The Author Of An Article In The Last Number Of The Quarterly Review, Entitled "Romanism In Ireland."

It glads us much to be able to say,
That a meeting is fixt for some early day,
Of all such dowagers--he or she--
(No matter the sex, so they dowagers be,)
Whose opinions concerning Church and State
From about the time of the Curfew date--
Stanch sticklers still for days bygone,
And admiring them for their rust alone--
To whom if we would a leader give,
Worthy their tastes conservative,
We need but some mummy-statesman raise,
Who was pickled and potted in Ptolemy's days;
For that's the man, if waked from his shelf,
To conserve and swaddle this world like himself.
Such, we're happy to state, are the old he-dames
Who've met in committee and given their names
(In good hieroglyphics), with kind intent
To pay some handsome com...

Thomas Moore

Late Tithe Case.

        "sic vos non vobis."


        "The Vicar of Birmingham desires me to state that, in consequence of the passing of a recent Act of Parliament, he is compelled to adopt measures which may by some be considered harsh or precipitate; but, in duty to what he owes to his successors, he feels bound to preserve the rights of the vicarage."
        --Letter from Mr. S. Powell, August 6.


No, not for yourselves, ye reverend men,
Do you take one pig in every ten,
But for Holy Church's future heirs,
Who've an abstract right to that pig, as theirs;
The law supposing that such heirs male
Are already seized of the pig, in tail.
No, not for himself hath Birmingham's priest
His "well-beloved" of their pennies fleeced:
But it is that, bef...

Thomas Moore

A Corrected Report Of Some Late Speeches.

        "Then I heard one saint speaking, and another saint said unto that saint,"


St. Sinclair rose and declared in smooth,
That he wouldn't give sixpence to Maynooth.
He had hated priests the whole of his life,
For a priest was a man who had no wife,^[1]
And, having no wife, the Church was his mother,
The Church was his father, sister and brother.
This being the case, he was sorry to say
That a gulf 'twixt Papist and Protestant lay,^[2]
So deep and wide, scarce possible was it
To say even "how d' ye do?" across it:
And tho' your Liberals, nimble as fleas,
Could clear such gulfs with perfect ease,
'Twas a jump that naught on earth could make
Your proper, heavy-built Christian take.
No, no,--if a Dance of Sects must be,
H...

Thomas Moore