The Euthanasia Of Van.

        "We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out. If it be so why not let us die in peace?"
        --LORD BEXLEY'S Letter to the Freeholders of Kent.


Stop, Intellect, in mercy stop,
    Ye curst improvements, cease;
And let poor Nick Vansittart drop
    Into his grave in peace.

Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun,
    Young Freedom, veil thy head;
Let nothing good be thought or done,
    Till Nick Vansittart's dead!

Take pity on a dotard's fears,
    Who much doth light detest;
And let his last few drivelling years
    Be dark as were the rest.

You too, ye fleeting one-pound notes,
    Speed not so fast away--
Ye rags on which old Nicky gloats,
    A few months longer stay.

Together soon, or much I err,
    You both from life may go--
The notes unto the scavenger,
    And Nick--to Nick below.

Ye Liberals, whate'er your plan,
    Be all reforms suspended;
In compliment to dear old Van,
    Let nothing bad be mended.

Ye Papists, whom oppression wrings,
    Your cry politely cease,
And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings
    That Van may die in peace.

So shall he win a fame sublime
    By few old rag-men gained;
Since all shall own, in Nicky's time,
    Nor sense nor justice reigned.

So shall his name thro' ages past,
    And dolts ungotten yet,
Date from "the days of Nicholas,"
    With fond and sad regret;--

And sighing say, "Alas, had he
    "Been spared from Pluto's bowers,
"The blessed reign of Bigotry
    "And Rags might still be ours!"

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

A Melologue Upon National Music.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Weep Not For Those. (Air.--Avison.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

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

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Quick! We Have But A Second.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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The Fudge Family In Paris Letter IV. From Phelim Connor To ----

"Return!"--no, never, while the withering hand
Of bigot power is on that hapless land;
While, for the faith my fathers held to God,
Even in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscribed, and--like the spot left bare
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there^[1]--
On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!--let them stay, who in their country's pangs
See naught but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:
Still let your .            .            .            .^[2]
            .            .            .            .            .
Still hope a...

Thomas Moore

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...

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

The Boy Statesman. By A Tory.

        "That boy will be the death of me."
        Matthews at Home.


Ah, Tories dear, our ruin is near,
    With Stanley to help us, we cant but fall;
Already a warning voice I hear,
Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear,
    "That boy--that boy'll be the death of you all."

He will, God help us!--not even Scriblerius
    In the "Art of Sinking" his match could be;
And our case is growing exceeding serious,
    For, all being in the same boat as he,
    If down my Lord goes, down go we,
    Lord Baron Stanley and Company,
As deep in Oblivion's swamp below
As such "Masters Shallow," well could go;
And where we shall all both low and high,
Embalmed in mud, as forgotten lie
As already doth Graham of Netherby!
But that...

Thomas Moore

Musings Of An Unreformed Peer.

Of all the odd plans of this monstrously queer age,
The oddest is that of reforming the peerage;--
Just as if we, great dons, with a title and star,
Did not get on exceedingly well as we are,
And perform all the functions of noodles by birth
As completely as any born noodles on earth.

How acres descend, is in law-books displayed,
But we as wiseacres descend, ready made;
And by right of our rank in Debrett's nomenclature,
Are all of us born legislators by nature;--
Like ducklings to water instinctively taking,
So we with like quackery take to lawmaking;
And God forbid any reform should come o'er us,
To make us more wise than our sires were before us.

The Egyptians of old the same policy knew--
If your sire was a cook, you must be a cook too...

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