The Duke Is The Lad.

        Air.--"A master I have, and I am his man,
        Galloping dreary dun."
        "Castle of Andalusia."


The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass.
    Galloping, dreary duke;
    The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,
    He's an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass,
            With his charger prancing,
            Grim eye glancing,
            Chin, like a Mufti,
            Grizzled and tufty,
        Galloping, dreary Duke.

Ye misses, beware of the neighborhood
    Of this galloping dreary Duke;
Avoid him, all who see no good
In being run o'er by a Prince of the Blood.
            For, surely, no nymph is
            Fond of a grim phiz.
            And of the married,
            Whole crowds have miscarried
    At sight of this dreary Duke.

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

Still When Daylight.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

She Sung Of Love.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

You Remember Ellen.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Still Thou Fliest.

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.

The High-Born Ladye.

In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her,
    Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she;
Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her,
    But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling,
    "That Knight must the conqueror of conquerors be;
"He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in:--
    "None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her
    On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree;
Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,
    And worshipt at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her,
    With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea;
His visor was d...

Thomas Moore

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 Knight And The Friar. Part First.

In our Fifth Harry's reign, when 'twas the fashion
To thump the French, poor creatures! to excess;--
Tho' Britons, now a days, shew more compassion,
And thump them, certainly, a great deal less;--

In Harry's reign, when flush'd Lancastrian roses
Of York's pale blossoms had usurp'd the right;^[3]
As wine drives Nature out of drunkards' noses,
Till red, triumphantly, eclipses white;--
In Harry's reign--but let me to my song,
Or good king Harry's reign may seem too long.

SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM, a gallant knight,
When this king Harry went to war, in France,
Girded a sword about his middle;
Resolving, very lustily, to fight,
And teach the Frenchmen how to dance,
Without a fiddle.

And wond'rous bold Sir Thomas prove'd in battle,
Perfor...

George Colman

From The Hon. Henry ----, To Lady Emma ----.

Paris, March 30,1833.


You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle,
How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;
And the truth is,--as truth you will have, my sweet railer,--
    There are two worthy persons I always feel loath
To take leave of at starting,--my mistress and tailor,--
    As somehow one always has scenes with them both;
The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears,
    She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney,--
Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,
    A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey.

But to come to the point, tho' you think, I dare say.
That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,
'Pon honor you're wrong;--such a mere bagatelle
    As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fea...

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter IV. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----.

He comes from Erin's speechful shore
Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er
    With hot effusions--hot and weak;
Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,
He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms
    To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,^[1]
Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!
Journals reserved for realms of bliss,
Being much too good to sell in this,
Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,
    Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;
And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,
    Blow all your little penny trumpets.
He comes, the reverend man, to tell
    To all who still the Church's part take,
Tales of parsonic woe, that well
    Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache:--
Of ten whole bis...

Thomas Moore

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter V. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Miss Dorothy ----.

What a time since I wrote!--I'm a sad, naughty girl--
For, tho' like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl;--
Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a letter to note 'em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, DOLLY, my dresses,
My gowns, so divine!--there's no language expresses,
Except just the two words "superbe, magnifique,"
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is called--I forget--à la--something which sounded
Like alicampane--but in truth I'm confounded
And bothered, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(BOB'S) cookery language, and Madame LE ROI'S:
What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One's hair and one's c...

Thomas Moore