The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 242

Those who are anxious to run a muck Can?t do better than join with Puck.

They'll find him _bon diable_--spite of his phiz-- And, in fact, his great ambition is, While playing old Puck in first-rate style, To be _thought_ Robin Good-fellow all the while.

POLICE REPORTS.

CASE OF IMPOSTURE.

Among other stray flashmen disposed of, this week, Was a youngster named Stanley, genteelly connected, Who has lately been pa.s.sing off coins as antique, Which have proved to be _sham_ ones, tho' long unsuspected.

The ancients, our readers need hardly be told, Had a coin they called "Talents," for wholesale demands; And 'twas some of said coinage this youth was so bold As to fancy he'd got, G.o.d knows how, in his hands.

People took him, however, like fools, at his word; And these talents (all prized at his own valuation,) Were bid for, with eagerness even more absurd Than has often distinguisht this great thinking nation.

Talk of wonders one now and then sees advertised, "Black swans"--"Queen Anne farthings"--or even "a child's caul"-- Much and justly as all these rare objects are prized, "Stanley's talents" outdid them--swans, farthings and all!

At length some mistrust of this coin got abroad; Even quondam believers began much to doubt of it; Some rung it, some rubbed it, suspecting a fraud-- And the hard rubs it got rather took the s.h.i.+ne out of it.

Others, wis.h.i.+ng to break the poor prodigy's fall, Said 'twas known well to all who had studied the matter, That the Greeks had not only _great_ talents but _small_, And those found on the youngster were clearly _the latter_.

While others who viewed the grave farce with a grin-- Seeing counterfeits pa.s.s thus for coinage so ma.s.sy, By way of a hint to the dolts taken in, Appropriately quoted Budaeus "de _a.s.se_."

In short, the whole sham by degrees was found out, And this coin which they chose by such fine names to call, Proved a mere lackered article--showy, no doubt, But, ye G.o.ds! not the true Attic Talent at all.

As the impostor was still young enough to repent, And, besides, had some claims to a grandee connection, Their Wors.h.i.+ps--considerate for once--only sent The young Thimblerig off to the House of Correction.

REFLECTIONS.

ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ARTICLE OF THE CHURCH IN THE LAST NUMBER OF _The Quarterly Review_.

I'm quite of your mind;--tho' these Pats cry aloud That they've got "too much Church," 'tis all nonsense and stuff; For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed That even _too much_ of it's not quite enough.

Ay! dose them with parsons, 'twill cure all their ills;-- Copy Morrison's mode when from pill-box undaunted he Pours thro' the patient his black-coated pills, Nor cares what their quality, so there's but quant.i.ty.

I verily think 'twould be worth England's while To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether 'Twould not be as well to give up the green isle To the care, wear and tear of the Church altogether.

The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant; The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet,[1]

And now if King William would make them a present To t'other chaste lady--ye Saints, just imagine it!

Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief, Might then all be culled from the episcopal benches; While colonels in black would afford some relief From the hue that reminds one of the old scarlet wench's.

Think how fierce at a _charge_ (being practised therein) The Right Reverend Brigadier Phillpotts would slash on!

How General Blomfield, thro' thick and thro' thin, To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would dash on!

For in one point alone do the amply fed race Of bishops to beggars similitude bear-- That, set them on horseback, in full steeple chase, And they'll ride, if not pulled up in time--you know where.

But, bless you! in Ireland, that matters not much, Where affairs have for centuries gone the same way; And a good stanch Conservative's system is such That he'd back even Beelzebub's long-founded sway.

I am therefore, dear _Quarterly_, quite of your mind;-- Church, Church, in all shapes, into Erin let's pour: And the more she rejecteth our medicine so kind.

The more let's repeat it--"Black dose, as before."

Let Coercion, that peace-maker, go hand in hand With demure-eyed Conversion, fit sister and brother; And, covering with prisons and churches the land, All that won't _go_ to _one_, we'll put _into_ the other.

For the sole, leading maxim of us who're inclined To rule over Ireland, not well but religiously, Is to treat her like ladies who've just been confined (Or who _ought_ to be so), and to _church_ her prodigiously.

[1] Grant of Ireland to Henry II. by Pope Adrian.

NEW GRAND EXHIBITION OF MODELS OF THE TWO HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

Come, step in, gentlefolks, here ye may view An exact and natural representation (Like Siburn's Model of Waterloo[1]) Of the Lords and Commons of this here nation.

There they are--all cut out in cork-- The "Collective Wisdom" wondrous to see; My eyes! when all them heads are at work, What a vastly weighty consarn it must be.

As for the "wisdom,"--_that_ may come anon; Tho', to say truth, we sometimes see (And I find the phenomenon no uncommon 'un) A man who's M.P. with a head that's M.T.

Our Lords are _rather_ too small, 'tis true; But they do well enough for Cabinet shelves; And, besides,--_what's_ a man with creeturs to do That make such _werry_ small figures themselves?

There--don?t touch those lords, my pretty dears--(_Aside_.) Curse the children!--this comes of reforming a nation: Those meddling young brats have so damaged my peers, I must lay in more cork for a new creation.

Them yonder's our bishops--"to whom much is given,"

And who're ready to take as much more as you please: The seers of old time saw visions of heaven, But these holy seers see nothing but Sees.

Like old Atlas[2](the chap, in Cheapside, there below,) 'Tis for so much _per cent_, they take heaven on their shoulders; And joy 'tis to know that old High Church and Co., Tho' not capital priests, are such capital-holders.

There's one on 'em, Phillpotts, who now is away, As we're having him filled with b.u.mbustible stuff, Small crackers and squibs, for a great gala-day, When we annually fire his Right Reverence off.

'Twould do your heart good, ma'am, then to be by, When, bursting with gunpowder, 'stead of with bile, Crack, crack, goes the bishop, while dowagers cry, "How like the dear man, both in matter and style!"

Should you want a few Peers and M.P.s, to bestow, As presents to friends, we can recommend these:-- Our n.o.bles are come down to nine-pence, you know, And we charge but a penny a piece for M.P.s.

Those of _bottle_-corks made take most with the trade, (At least 'mong such as my _Irish_ writ summons,) Of old _whiskey_ corks our O'Connells are made, But those we make Shaws and Lefroys of, are _rum_ 'uns.

So, step in, gentlefolks, etc.