The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 222

[1] "Let us from Clubs."

[2] Commonly called "Paddy Blake's Echoes".

[3] Anti-Catholic a.s.sociations, under the t.i.tle of Brunswick Clubs, were at this time becoming numerous both in England and Ireland.

INCANTATION.

FROM THE NEW TRAGEDY OF "THE BRUNSWICKERS."

SCENE.--_Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.-- Enter three Brunswickers_.

_1st Bruns_.--Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawled,

_2d Bruns_.--Once hath fool Newcastle bawled,

_3d Bruns_.--Bexley snores:--'tis time, 'tis time,

_1st Bruns_.--Round about the caldron go; In the poisonous nonsense throw.

Bigot spite that long hath grown Like a toad within a stone, Sweltering in the heart of Scott, Boil we in the Brunswick pot.

_All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Eldon, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

_2d Bruns_.--Slaver from Newcastle's quill In the noisome mess distil, Br.i.m.m.i.n.g high our Brunswick broth Both with venom and with froth.

Mix the brains (tho' apt to hash ill, Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel, With that malty stuff which Chandos Drivels as no other man does.

Catch (_i. e._ if catch you can) One idea, spick and span, From my Lord of Salisbury,-- One idea, tho' it be Smaller than the "happy flea"

Which his sire in sonnet terse Wedded to immortal verse.[1]

Tho' to rob the son is sin, Put his _one_ idea in; And, to keep it company, Let that conjuror Winchelsea Drop but _half_ another there, If he hath so much to spare.

Dreams of murders and of arsons, Hatched in heads of Irish parsons, Bring from every hole and corner, Where ferocious priests like Horner Purely for religious good Cry aloud for Papist's blood, Blood for Wells, and such old women, At their ease to wade and swim in.

_All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

_3d Bruns_.--Now the charm begin to brew; Sisters, sisters, add thereto Sc.r.a.ps of Lethbridge's old speeches, Mixt with leather from his breeches, Rinsings of old Bexley's brains, Thickened (if you'll take the pains) With that pulp which rags create, In their middle _nympha_ state, Ere, like insects frail and sunny, Forth they wing abroad as money.

There--the h.e.l.l-broth we've enchanted-- Now but _one_ thing more is wanted.

Squeeze o'er all that Orange juice, Castlereagh keeps corkt for use, Which, to work the better spell, is Colored deep with blood of ----, Blood, of powers far more various, Even than that of Januarius, Since so great a charm hangs o'er it, England's parsons bow before it, _All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

_2d Bruns_.--Cool it now with ----'s blood, So the charm is firm and good.

[_exeunt_.

[1] Alluding to a well-known lyric composition of the late Marquis, which, with a slight alteration, might be addressed either to a flea or a fly.

HOW TO MAKE A GOOD POLITICIAN.

Whene'er you're in doubt, said a Sage I once knew, 'Twixt two lines of conduct _which_ course to pursue, Ask a woman's advice, and, whate'er she advise, Do the very reverse and you're sure to be wise.

Of the same use as guides the Brunswicker throng; In their thoughts, words and deeds, so instinctively wrong, That whatever they counsel, act, talk or indite, Take the opposite course and you're sure to be right.

So golden this rule, that, had nature denied you The use of that finger-post, Reason, to guide you-- Were you even more doltish than any given man is, More soft than Newcastle, more twaddling than Van is.

I'd stake my repute, on the following conditions, To make you the soundest of sound politicians.

Place yourself near the skirts of some high-flying Tory-- Some Brunswicker parson, of port-drinking glory,-- Watch well how he dines, during any great Question-- What makes him feel gayly, what spoils his digestion-- And always feel sure that _his_ joy o'er a stew Portends a clear case of dyspepsia to _you_.

Read him backwards, like Hebrew--whatever he wishes Or praises, note down as absurd or pernicious.

Like the folks of a weather-house, s.h.i.+fting about, When he's _out_ be an _In_-when he's _in_ be an _Out_.

Keep him always reversed in your thoughts, night and day, Like an Irish barometer turned the wrong way:-- If he's _up_ you may swear that foul weather is nigh; If he's _down_ you may look for a bit of blue sky.

Never mind what debaters or journalists say, Only ask what _he_ thinks and then think t'other way.

Does he hate the Small-note Bill? then firmly rely The Small-note Bill's a blessing, tho' _you_ don't know why.

Is Brougham his aversion? then Harry's your man.

Does he quake at O'Connell? take doubly to Dan.

Is he all for the Turks? then at once take the whole Russian Empire (Tsar, Cossacks and all) to your soul.

In short, whatsoever he talks, thinks or is, Be your thoughts, words and essence the contrast of his.

Nay, as Siamese ladies--at least the polite ones,-- All paint their teeth black, 'cause the devil has white ones- If even by the chances of time or of tide Your Tory for once should have sense on his side, Even _then_ stand aloof--for be sure that Old Nick When a Tory talks sensibly, means you some trick.

Such my recipe is--and, in one single verse, I shall now, in conclusion, its substance rehea.r.s.e, Be all that a Brunswicker _is_ not nor _could_ be, And then--you?ll be all that an honest man should be.

EPISTLE OF CONDOLENCE.

FROM A SLAVE-LORD, TO A COTTON-LORD.

Alas! my dear friend, what a state of affairs!

How unjustly we both are despoiled of our rights!

Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs, Nor must you any more work to death little whites.

Both forced to submit to that general controller Of King, Lords and cotton mills, Public Opinion, No more shall _you_ beat with a big billy-roller.

Nor _I_ with the cart-whip a.s.sert my dominion.

Whereas, were we suffered to do as we please With our Blacks and our Whites, as of yore we were let, We might range them alternate, like harpsichord keys, And between us thump out a good piebald duet.

But this fun is all over;--farewell to the zest Which Slavery now lends to each teacup we sip; Which makes still the cruellest coffee the best, And that sugar the sweetest which smacks of the whip.

Farewell too the Factory's white pickaninnies-- Small, living machines which if flogged to their tasks Mix so well with their namesakes, the "Billies" and "Jennies,"

That _which_ have got souls in 'em n.o.body asks;--