The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 221

Tied down to the stake, while her limbs, as they quiver, A slow fire of tyranny wastes by degrees-- No wonder disease should have swelled up her liver, No wonder you, Gourmands, should love her disease.

[1] The only way, Monsieur Ude a.s.sures us, to get rid of the oil so objectionable in this fish.

[2] A liver complaint. The process by which the livers of geese are enlarged for the famous _Pates de foie d'oie_.

IRISH ANTIQUITIES.

According to some learned opinions The Irish once were Carthaginians; But trusting to more late descriptions I'd rather say they were Egyptians.

My reason's this:--the Priests of Isis, When forth they marched in long array, Employed, 'mong other grave devices, A Sacred a.s.s to lead the way; And still the antiquarian traces 'Mong Irish Lords this Pagan plan, For still in all religious cases They put Lord Roden in the van.

A CURIOUS FACT.

The present Lord Kenyon (the Peer who writes letters, For which the waste-paper folks much are his debtors) Hath one little oddity well worth reciting, Which puzzleth observers even more than his writing.

Whenever Lord Kenyon doth chance to behold A cold Apple-pie--mind, the pie _must_ be cold-- His Lords.h.i.+p looks solemn (few people know why), And he makes a low bow to the said apple-pie.

This idolatrous act in so "vital" a Peer, Is by most serious Protestants thought rather queer-- Pie-wors.h.i.+p, they hold, coming under the head (Vide _Crustium_, chap, iv.) of the Wors.h.i.+p of Bread.

Some think 'tis a tribute, as author he owes For the service that pie-crust hath done to his prose;-- The only good things in his pages, they swear, Being those that the pastry-cook sometimes put there.

_Others_ say, 'tis a homage, thro' piecrust conveyed, To our Glorious Deliverer's much-honored shade; As that Protestant Hero (or Saint, if you please) Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green pease,[1]

And 'tis solely in loyal remembrance of that, My Lord Kenyon to apple-pie takes off his hat.

While others account for this kind salutation;"-- By what Tony Lumpkin calls "concatenation;"

A certain good-will that, from sympathy's ties, 'Twixt old _Apple_-women and _Orange_-men lies.

But 'tis needless to add, these are all vague surmises, For thus, we're a.s.sured, the whole matter arises: Lord Kenyon's respected old father (like many Respected old fathers) was fond of a penny; And loved so to save,[2] that--there's not the least question-- His death was brought on by a bad indigestion, From cold apple-pie-crust his Lords.h.i.+p _would_ stuff in At breakfast to save the expense of hot m.u.f.fin.

Hence it is, and hence only, that cold apple-pies Are beheld by his Heir with such reverent eyes-- Just as honest King Stephen his beaver might doff To the fishes that carried his kind uncle off-- And while _filial_ piety urges so many on, 'Tis pure _apple_-pie-ety moves my Lord Kenyon.

[1] See the anecdote, which the d.u.c.h.ess of Marlborough relates in her Memoirs, of this polite hero appropriating to himself one day, at dinner, a whole dish of green peas--the first of the season--while the poor Princess Anne, who was then in a longing condition, sat by vainly entreating with her eyes for a share.

[2] The same prudent propensity characterizes his descendant, who (as is well known) would not even go to the expense of a diphthong on his father's monument, but had the inscription spelled, economically, thus:--"_mors janua vita_"

NEW-FAs.h.i.+ONED ECHOES.

Sir,--

Most of your readers are no doubt acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain not over-wise judge who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an a.s.s at the door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraordinary _echo_ there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel.

As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few lines suggested by them.

Yours, etc. S.

1828

_huc coeamus,[1] ait; nullique libentius unquam responsura sono, coeamus, retulit echo_.

OVID.

There are echoes, we know, of all sorts, From the echo that "dies in the dale,"

To the "airy-tongued babbler" that sports Up the tide of the torrent her "tale."

There are echoes that bore us, like Blues, With the latest smart _mot_ they have heard; There are echoes extremely like shrews Letting n.o.body have the last word.

In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too.

Certain "talented" echoes[2] there dwell, Who on being askt, "How do you do?"

Politely reply, ?Pretty well,"

But why should I talk any more Of such old-fas.h.i.+oned echoes as these, When Britain has new ones in store, That transcend them by many degrees?

For of all repercussions of sound Concerning which bards make a pother, There's none like that happy rebound When one blockhead echoes an other;--

When Kenyon commences the bray, And the Borough-Duke follows his track; And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay Rathdowne brays, with interest, back!--

And while, of _most_ echoes the sound On our ear by reflection doth fall, These Brunswickers[3] pa.s.s the bray round, Without any reflection at all.

Oh Scott, were I gifted like you, Who can name all the echoes there are From Benvoirlich to bold Benvenue, From Benledi to wild Uamvar;

I might track thro' each hard Irish name The rebounds of this asinine strain, Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came To the _chief_ Neddy, Kenyon, again;

Might tell how it roared in Rathdowne, How from Dawson it died off genteelly-- How hollow it hung from the crown Of the fat-pated Marquis of Ely;

How on hearing my Lord of Glandine, Thistle-eaters the stoutest gave way, Outdone in their own special line By the forty-a.s.s power of his bray!

But, no--for so humble a bard 'Tis a subject too trying to touch on; Such n.o.blemen's names are too hard, And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.

Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill, Of the dell and the deep-sounding shelves; If in spite of Narcissus you still Take to fools who are charmed with themselves,

Who knows but, some morning retiring, To walk by the Trent's wooded side, You may meet with Newcastle, admiring His own lengthened ears in the tide!

Or, on into Cambria straying, Find Kenyon, that double tongued elf, In his love of _a.s.s_-cendency, braying A Brunswick duet with himself!