To The Large And Beautiful Miss......,

IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE

IMPROMPTU.


        --Ego Pars--VIRG.


In wedlock a species of lottery lies,
    Where in blanks and in prizes we deal;
But how comes it that you, such a capital prize,
    Should so long have remained in the wheel?

If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree,
    To me such a ticket should roll,
A sixteenth, Heaven knows! were sufficient for me;
    For what could I do with the whole?

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

Fanny, Dearest.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Why Does She So Long Delay? By Paul, The Silentiary.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Extracts From The Diary Of A Politician.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

A Melologue Upon National Music.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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One Bumper At Parting.

One bumper at parting!--tho' many
    Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any
    Remains to be crowned by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure hath in it,
    Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute
    It dies, do we know half its worth.
But come,--may our life's happy measure
    Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
    They die midst the tears of the cup.

'Tis onward we journey, how pleasant
    To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
    That mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,
    Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours--
Ah, never doth Time travel faster,
    Than when his way lies among...

Thomas Moore

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

Dear Dick--just arrived at my own humblegîte,
I enclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete,
Just arrived, per express, of our late noble feat.

    ^{[Extract from the "County Gazette."]}

This place is getting gay and full again.

            *                *                *                *                *

    Last week was married, "in the Lord,"
The Reverend Mortimer O'Mulligan,
    Preacher, in Irish, of the Word,
He, who the Lord's force lately led on--
(Exeter Hall his Armagh-geddon,)^[1]
To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place,
One of the chosen, as "heir of grace,"
And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge,
Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge.

Same evening, Miss F. Fudge, 'tis hin...

Thomas Moore

This Life Is All Checkered With Pleasures And Woes

This life is all checkered with pleasures and woes,
    That chase one another like waves of the deep,--
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,
    Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
    That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried;
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed.
    The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup--if existence would cloy,
    With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,
    And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
    Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play,
Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,
    And neglected his t...

Thomas Moore

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter VII.

FROM MESSRS. LACKINGTON AND CO. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.


Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.--look it thro'--
Very sorry--but can't undertake--'twouldn't do.
Clever work, Sir!--would get up prodigiously well--
Its only defect is--it never would sell.
And tho' Statesmen may glory in being unbought,
In an Author 'tis not so desirable thought.

    Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read--
Tho' the gold of Good-sense and Wit's small-change are fled,
Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead,
Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it)
Not even such names as Fitzgerald's can sink it!

    However, Sir--if you're for trying again,
And at somewhat that's vendible--we are your men.

  ...

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

Amatory Colloquy Between Bank And Government.

BANK.

Is all then forgotten? those amorous pranks
    You and I in our youth, my dear Government, played;
When you called me the fondest, the truest of Banks,
    And enjoyed the endearing advances I made!

When left to ourselves, unmolested and free,
    To do all that a dashing young couple should do,
A law against paying was laid upon me,
    But none against owing, dear helpmate, on you.

And is it then vanisht?--that "hour (as Othello
    So happily calls it) of Love and Direction?"
And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow,
    Grow good in our old age and cut the connection?

GOVERNMENT.

Even so, my beloved Mrs. Bank, it must be;
    This paying in cash plays the devil with wooing:
We've bo...

Thomas Moore