Speech On The Umbrella Question.

^[1]

BY LORD ELDON.


        "vos inumbrelles video."--Ex Juvenil.
        GEORGII CANNINGII.^[2]


My Lords, I'm accused of a trick that God knows is
    The last into which at my age I could fall--
Of leading this grave House of Peers by their noses,
    Wherever I choose, princes, bishops and all.

My Lords, on the question before us at present,
    No doubt I shall hear, "'Tis that cursed old fellow,
"That bugbear of all that is liberal and pleasant,
    "Who won't let the Lords give the man his umbrella!"

God forbid that your Lordships should knuckle to me;
    I am ancient--but were I as old as King Priam,
Not much, I confess, to your credit 'twould be,
    To mind such a twaddling old Trojan as I am.

I own, of our Protestant laws I am jealous,
    And long as God spares me will always maintain,
That once having taken men's rights, or umbrellas,
    We ne'er should consent to restore them again.

What security have you, ye Bishops and Peers,
    If thus you give back Mr. Bell's parapluie,
That he mayn't with its stick, come about all your ears,
    And then--where would your Protestant periwigs be?

No! heaven be my judge, were I dying to-day,
    Ere I dropt in the grave, like a medlar that's mellow,
"For God's sake"--at that awful moment I'd say--
    "For God's sake, don't give Mr. Bell his umbrella."

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

Captain Rock In London. Letter From The Captain To Terry Alt, Esq.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

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Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Lines Written On Leaving Philadelphia.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh! Think Not My Spirits Are Always As Light.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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To The Ship In Which Lord Castlereagh Sailed For The Continent.

Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3.


So may my Lady's prayers prevail,
    And Canning's too, and lucid Bragge's,
And Eldon beg a favoring gale
    From Eolus, that older Bags,
To speed thee on thy destined way,
Oh ship, that bearest our Castlereagh,
Our gracious Regent's better half
    And therefore quarter of a King--
(As Van or any other calf
    May find without much figuring).
Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes,
    Waft this Lord of place and pelf,
Any where his Lordship pleases,
    Tho' 'twere to Old Nick himself!

Oh, what a face of brass was his.
Who first at Congress showed his phiz--
To sign away the Rights of Man
    To Russian threats and Austrian juggle;
And leave the sinking African
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Epistle From Captain Rock To Lord Lyndhurst.

Dear Lyndhurst,--you'll pardon my making thus free,--
But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we,
Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,
Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private--
Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,
Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet,
But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught her
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All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it,
Is simply, that you make the law and I break it;
And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two
Played so well into each other's hands as we do;
Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture,
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Not Birmingham's...

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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,
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Bring legions of Squires--if they'll only be mute--
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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...

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Thoughts On The Late Destructive Propositions Of The Tories.[1] By A Common-Councilman.

I sat me down in my easy chair,
    To read, as usual, the morning papers;
But--who shall describe my look of despair,
    When I came to Lefroy's "destructive" capers!
That he--that, of all live men, Lefroy
Should join in the cry "Destroy, destroy!"
Who, even when a babe, as I've heard said,
On Orange conserve was chiefly fed,
And never, till now, a movement made
That wasnt manfully retrograde!
Only think--to sweep from the light of day
Mayors, maces, criers and wigs away;
To annihilate--never to rise again--
A whole generation of aldermen,
Nor leave them even the accustomed tolls,
To keep together their bodies and souls!--
At a time too when snug posts and places
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Crash--crash--like the mummy-cases

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Intolerance, A Satire.

        "This clamor which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion has almost worn put the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth."

        ADDISON, Freeholder, No. 37.


Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain
Her classic fingers with the dust profane
Of Bulls, Decrees and all those thundering scrolls
Which took such freedom once with royal souls,^[1]
When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade,
And kings were damned as fast as now they're made,
No, no--let Duigenan search the papal chair
For fragrant treasures long forgotten there;
And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks
That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks,
Let sall...

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