The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 193

And the fresh Spirit that can warble free Thro' prison-bars its hymn to Liberty!

The Scene next changes to a Tailor's Workshop, and a fancifully-arranged group of these Artists is discovered upon the Shop-board--Their task evidently of a _royal_ nature, from the profusion of gold-lace, frogs, etc., that lie about--They all rise and come forward, while one of them sings the following Stanzas to the tune of "Derry Down."

My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten your knees, For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease, While I sing of our Prince (and a fig for his railers), The Shop-board's delight! the Maecenas of Tailors!

Derry down, down, down derry down.

Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note, While _His_ short cut to fame is--the cut of his coat; Philip's Son thought the World was too small for his Soul, But our Regent's finds room in a laced b.u.t.ton-hole.

Derry down, etc.

Look thro' all Europe's Kings--those, at least, who go loose-- Not a King of them all's such a friend to the Goose.

So, G.o.d keep him increasing in size and renown, Still the fattest and best fitted Prince about town!

Derry down, etc.

During the "Derry down" of this last verse, a messenger from the Secretary of State's Office rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect of the scene, is the very Tailor suspected of the mysterious fragments) is interrupted in the midst of his laudatory exertions and hurried away, to the no small surprise and consternation of his comrades. The Plot now hastens rapidly in its development--the management of the Tailor's examination is highly skilful, and the alarm which he is made to betray is natural without being ludicrous. The explanation too which he finally gives is not more simple than satisfactory. It appears that the said fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended to send to Colonel M'Mahon upon subjects purely professional, and the corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced and skilfully laid beside the others, the following _billet-doux_ is the satisfactory result of their juxtaposition,

Honored Colonel--my Wife, who's the Queen of all slatterns, Neglected to put up the Book of new Patterns.

She sent the wrong Measures too--shamefully wrong-- They're the same used for poor Mr. Lambert, when young; But, bless you! they wouldn?t go half round the Regent-- So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient.

This fully explains the whole mystery--the Regent resumes his wonted smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual to the satisfaction of all parties.

[1] There was, in like manner, a mysterious Book, in the 16th Century, which employed all the anxious curiosity of the Learned of that time.

Every one spoke of it; many wrote against it; though it does not appear that anybody had ever seen it; and Grotius is of opinion that no such Book ever existed. It was ent.i.tled, "_Liber de tribus impostoribus_." (See Morhof. Cap. "_de Libris d.a.m.natis_.")

[2] The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of the Bourbons at the first Grand Fete, and which was ornamented (all "for the Deliverance of Europe") with _fleurs de-lys_.

[3] "To enable the individual who holds the office of Chancellor to maintain it in becoming splendor." (_A loud laugh_.)--Lord CASTLEREAGH'S _Speech upon the Vice Chancellor's Bill_.

[4] Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother.

SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.

THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.

A DREAM.

"It would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person from the acc.u.mulating pile of papers that encompa.s.sed it."

--Lord CASTLEREAGH'S _Speech upon Colonel M Mahon's Appointment, April 14, 1812_.

Last night I tost and turned in bed, But could not sleep--at length I said, "I'll think of Viscount Castlereagh, "And of his speeches--that's the way."

And so it was, for instantly I slept as sound as sound could be.

And then I dreamt--so dread a dream!

Fuseli has no such theme; Lewis never wrote or borrowed Any horror half so horrid!

Methought the Prince in whiskered state Before me at his breakfast sate; On one side lay unread Pet.i.tions, On t'other, Hints from five Physicians!

_Here_ tradesmen's bills,--official papers, Notes from my Lady, drams for vapors _There_ plans of Saddles, tea and toast.

Death-warrants and _The Morning Post_.

When lo! the Papers, one and all.

As if at some magician's call.

Began to flutter of themselves From desk and table, floor and shelves, And, cutting each some different capers, Advanced, oh jacobinic papers!

As tho' they said, "Our sole design is "To suffocate his Royal Highness!"

The Leader of this vile sedition Was a huge Catholic Pet.i.tion, With grievances so full and heavy, It threatened worst of all the bevy; Then Common-Hall Addresses came In swaggering sheets and took their aim Right at the Regent's well-drest head, As if _determined_ to be read.

Next Tradesmen's bills began to fly, And Tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high; Nay even Death-warrants thought they'd best Be lively too and join the rest.

But, oh the basest of defections!

His letter about "predilections"!-- His own dear letter, void of grace, Now flew up in its parent's face!

Shocked with this breach of filial duty, He just could murmur "_et_ Tu _Brute_?"

Then sunk, subdued upon the floor At Fox's bust, to rise no more!

I waked--and prayed, with lifted hand, "Oh! never may this Dream prove true; "Tho' paper overwhelms the land, "Let it not crush the Sovereign, too!"

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 thought it but decent, between me and you, That the two _other_ Houses should settle it too.

I need not remind you how cursedly bad Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad;[2]

A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me, A more _limited_ Monarchy could not well be.

I was called upon then, in that moment of puzzle.

To choose my own Minister--just as they muzzle A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.