AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN
BANK AND GOVERNMENT

BANK

Is all then forgotten? those amourous pranks
You and I, in our youth, my dear Government, play'd;
When you call'd me the fondest, the truest of Banks,
And enjoy'd 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 vanish'd? -- that "hour (as Othello
So happily calls it) of Love and Direction"?[1]
And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow,
grow good in our old age, and cut the connexion?

GOVERNMENT

Even so, my belov'd Mrs. Bank, it must be;
This paying in cash plays the devil with wooing;[2]
We've both had our swing, but I plainly foresee
There must soon be a stop to our bill-ing and cooing.

Propagation in reason - a small child or two --
Even Reverend Malthus himself is a friend to;
The issue of some folks is moderate and few --
But ours, my dear corporate Bank, there's no end to!

So -- hard though it be on a pair, who've already
Dispos'd of so many pounds, shillings and pence;
And, in spite of that pink of prosperity Freddy,[3]
So lavish of cash and so sparing of sense --

The day is at hand, my Papyria Venus,[4]
When, high as we once used to carry our capers --
These soft billet-doux we're now passing between us,
Will serve but to keep Mrs. Coutts in curl papers.

And when -- if we still must continue our love,
(After all that has pass'd) -- our amour, it is clear,
Like that which Miss Danae managed with Jove,
Must all be transacted in bullion, my dear!

(Thomas Moore, 1826).

Notes:

[1] "....An hour/Of love, of worldy matter and direction".

[2] It appears, however, that Ovid was a friend to the resumption of payment in specie:

[3] Honorable Frederick R-b-ns-n.

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Said a Sov'reign to a Note,
In the pocket of my coat,
Where they met in a neat purse of leather,
"How happens it, I prithee,
That though I'm wedded with thee,
Fair Pound, we can never live together?

Like your sex, fond of change,
With silver you can range,
And of lots of young sixpences be mother;
While with me -- upon my word
Not my Lady and my Lord
Of W--stm--th see so little of each other!"

The indignant Note replied
(Lying crumpled by his side),
"Shame, shame, it is yourself that roam, Sir --
One cannot look askance,
But, whip! you're off to France,
Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir.

Your scampering began from the moment Parson Van,
Poor man, made us one in Love's fetter;
"For better or for worse"
Is the usual marriage curse,
But ours is all "worse" and no "better."

In vain are laws pass'd,
There's nothing holds you fast
Tho' you know, sweet Sovereign, I adore you --
At the smallest hint in life,
Your forsake your lawful wife,
As other Sovereigns did before you.

I flirt with Silver, true --
But what can ladies do,
When disown'd by their natural protectors?
And as to falsehood, stuff!
I shall soon be false enough,
When I get among those wicked Bank Directors."

The Sovereign, smiling on her,
Now swore, upon his honour,
To be henceforth domestic and loyal;
But, within an hour or two,
Why -- I sold him to a Jew,
And he's now at No. 10, Palais Royal.

(Thomas Moore, 1826)

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Monday, March 13, 1826

The Budget - quite charming and witty - no hearing,
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it; --
Great comfort to find, though the Speech isn't cheering,
That all its gay auditors were, every minute.

What, still more prosperity! - mercy upon us,
"This boy'll be the death of me" - oft as, already,
Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,
For Ruin made easy there's no one like Freddy.

Tuesday

Much grave apprehension express'd by the Peers,
Lest -- calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts --
The large stock of gold we're to have in three years,
Should all find its way into highwayman's pockets![1]

Wednesday

Little doing - for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art
To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table --
When the Members all meet, to make much of that part
With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.

It appear'd, though, to-night, that - as churchwardens, yearly,
Eat up a small baby - those cormorant sinners,
The Bankrupt-Commissioners bolt very nearly
A moderate-siz'd bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners![2]
Nota bene - a rumour to-day, in the City,
"Mr. R-b-ns-n just has resign'd" - what a pity!
The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing,
When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin;
While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty,
A murmuring Stock-dove breath'd her ditty: --

"Alas, poor Robin, he crow'd as long
And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;
Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
Who'll make his shroud?"

"I," said the Bank, "though he play'd me a prank,
When I have a rag, poor Rob shall be roll'd in 't,
With many a pound I'll paper him round,
Like a plump rouleau - without the gold in 't."

(Thomas Moore, 1826)

Notes:

[1] "Another objection to a metallic currency was, that it produced a greater number of highway robberies" - Debate in the Lords.

[2] Mr. Abercromby's statement of the enormous tavern bills of the Commissioners of Bankrupts.

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Take your bell, take your bell,
Good Crier, and tell
To the Bulls and the Bears, till their ears are stunn'd,
That, lost or stolen,
Or fall'n through a hole in
The Treasury floor, is the Sinking Fund!

O yes! O yes!
Can anybody guess
What the deuce has become of this Treasury wonder?
It has Pitt's name on't,
All brass, in the front,
And R--b--ns--n's scrawl'd with a goose-quill under.

Folks well knew what
Would soon be its lot,
When Frederick or Jenky set hobnobbing,[1]
And said to each other,
"Suppose, dear brother,
We make this funny old Fund worth robbing."

We are come, alas!
To a very pretty pass --
Eight Hundred Millions of score, to pay,
With but Five in the till,
To discharge the bill,
And even that Five too, whipp'd away!

Stop thief! stop thief! --
From the Sub to the Chief,
These Genmen of Finance are plundering cattle --
Call the watch, call Bougham
Tell Joseph Hume,
That best of Charleys, to spring his rattle. 

Whoever will bring
This aforesaid thing
To the well-known house of Robinson and Jenkin,
Shall be paid, with thanks,
In the notes of banks,
Whose Funds have all learn'd "the Art of Sinking."

O yes! O yes!
Can any body guess
What the devil has become of the Treasury wonder?
It has Pitt's name on 't,
All brass, in the front,
And R--b--ns--n's, scrawl'd with a goose-quill under.

(Thomas Moore, 1826)

Notes:

[1] In 1824, when the Sinking Fund was raised by the imposition of new taxes to the sum of five millions.

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My banks are all furnished with rags,
So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em;
I've torn up my old money-bags,
Having little or nought to put in 'em.
My tradesman are smashing by dozens,
But this is all nothing, they say;
For bankrupts, since Adam, are cousins,
So, it's all in the family way.

My Debt not a penny takes from me,
As sages the matter explain; --
Bob owes it to Tom and then Tommy
Just owes it to Bob back again.
Since all have thus taken to owing,
There's nobody left that can pay;
And this is the way to keep going, --
All quite in the family way.

My senators vote away millions,
To put in Prosperity's budget;
And though it were billions or trillions,
The generous rogues wouldn't grudge it.
'Tis all but a family hop,
'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay;
Hands round! -- why the deuce should we stop?
'Tis all in the family way.

My labourers used to eat mutton,
As any great man of the State does;
And now the poor devils are put on
Small rations of tea and potatoes.
But cheer up John, Sawney and Paddy,
The King is your father, they say;
So ev'n if you starve for your Daddy,
'Tis all in the family way.

My rich manufacturers tumble,
My poor ones have nothing to chew;
And, even if themselves do not grumble,
Their stomachs undoubtedly do.
But coolly to fast en famille,
Is as good for the soul as to pray;
And famine itself is genteel,
When one starves in a family way.

I have found out a secret for Freddy,
A secret for next Budget day;
Though, perhaps he may know it already,
As he, too, 's a sage in his way.
When next for the Treasury scene he
Announces "the Devil to pay",
Let him write on the bills, "Nota bene,
'Tis all in the family way."

(Thomas Moore, 1826)

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Come riddle-me-ree, come riddle-me-ree,
And tell me, what my name may be.
I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old,
And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose; --
Though a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),
I have, ev'ry year since, been outgrowing my clothes;
Till, at last, such a corpulent giant I stand,
That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit,
It would take ev'ry morsel of scrip in the land
But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot.
Hence, they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature,
To cover me nothing but rags will supply;
And the doctors declare that, in due course of nature,
About the year 30 in rags I shall die.
Meanwhile I stalk hungry and bloated around,
An object of int'rest, most painful, to all;
In the warehouse, the cottage, the palace I'm found,
Holding citizen, peasant, and king in my thrall.
Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree,
Come, tell me what my name may be.

When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book,
Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw,
O'er his shoulders with large cipher eye-balls I look,
And down drops the pen from his paralyz'd paw!
When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo,
And expects through another to caper and prank it,
You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out "Boo!"
How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket.
When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall
His cup, full of gout, to Gaul's overthrow,
Lo, "Eight Hundred Millions" I write on the wall,
And the cup falls to earth and -- the gout to his toe!
But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram
My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's acres,
And, knowing who made me the thing that I am,
Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers.
Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
And tell, if thou knows't, who I may be.

(Thomas Moore, 1827)

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"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say,
And they cheer'd and shouted all the way,
As the Laird of Salmagundi went,
To open in state his Parliament.

The Salmagundians once were rich,
Or thought they were -- no matter which --
For every year, the Revenue[1]
From their Periwinkles larger grew;
And their rulers, skill'd in all the trick
And legerdemain of arithmetic,
Knew how to place 1, 2, 3, 4
5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 and 10,
Such various ways, behind, before,
That they made a unit seem a score,
And prov'd themselves most wealthy men!
So, on they went, a prosperous crew,
The people wise, the ruler clever --
And God help those, like me and you,
Who dar'd to doubt (as some now do)
That the Periwinkle Revenue
Would thus go flourishing on for ever.

"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say,
And they cheer'd and shouted all the way,
As the Great Panurge in glory went
To open his own dear Parliament.

But folks at length began to doubt
What all this conjuring was about;
For, every day, more deep in debt
They saw their wealthy rulers get: --
"Let's look (said they) the items through,
And see if what we're told be true
Of our Periwinkle Revenue."
But, Lord! they found there wasn't a tittle
Of truth in aught they heard before;
For, they gain'd by Periwinkles little,
And lost by Locusts ten times more!
These Locusts are a lordly breed
Some Salmagundians love to feed.
Of all the beasts that ever were born,
Your Locust most delights in corn;
And though his body be but small,
To fatten him takes the devil and all!
"Oh fie! oh fie!" was now the cry,
As they saw the gaudy show go by,
And the Laird of Salmagundi went
To open his Locust Parliament!

(Thomas Moore, 1827)

Notes:

[1] Accented as in Swift's line - "Not so a nation's revenues are paid."

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'Twas grav'd on the Stone of Destiny,[1]
In letters four, and letters three;
And ne'er did the King of the Gulls go by
But those awful letters scar'd his eye;
For he knew that a Prophet Voice had said
"As long as those words by man were read,
The ancient race of the Gulls should ne'er
One hour of peace or plenty share."
But years and years successive flew
And the letters still more legible grew, --
At top, a T, an H, an E,
And underneath, D. E. B. T.

Some thought them Hebrew, -- such as Jews,
More skill'd in Scrip than Scripture use;
While some surmis'd 'twas an ancient way
Of keeping accounts, (well known in the day
Of the fam'd Didlerius Jeremias,
Who had thereto a wonderful bias,)
And prov'd in books most learnedly boring,
'Twas called the Pontick way of scoring.
Howe'er this be, there never were yet
Seven letters of the alphabet,
That, 'twixt them form'd so grim a spell,
Or scar'd a Land of Gulls so well,
As did this awful riddle-me-ree
Of T.H.E.D.E.B.T.

Hark! - it is struggling Freedom's cry;
"Help, help, ye nations, or I die;
'Tis freedom's fight, and on the field
Where I expire, your doom is seal'd."
The Gull-King hears the awakening call,
He hath summon'd his Peers and Patriots all,
And he asks, "Ye noble Gulls, shall we
Stand basely by at the fall of the Free,
Nor utter a curse, nor deal a blow?"
And they answer, with voice of thunder, "No."

Out fly their flashing swords in the air! -
But, -- why do they rest suspended there?
What sudden blight, what baleful charm,
Hath chill'd each eye and check'd each arm?
Alas! some withering hand hath thrown
The veil from off that fatal stone,
And pointing now, with sapless finger,
Showeth where dark those letters linger, --
Letters four, and letters three,
T.H.E. D.E.B.T.

At sight thereof, each lifted brand
Powerless falls from every hand;
In vain the Patriot knits his brow, --
Even talk, his staple, fails him now.
In vain the King like a hero treads,
His Lords of the Treasury shake their heads;
And to all his talk of "brave and free",
No answer getteth His Majesty
But "T.H.E. D.E.B.T."

In short, the whole Gull nation feels
They're fairly spell-bound, neck and heels;
And so, in the face of the laughing world,
Must e'en sit down, with banners furled,
Adjourning all their dreams sublime
Of glory and war to -- some other time.

(Thomas Moore, 1833)

Notes:

[1] Linfail, or the Stone of Destiny, -- for which, see Westminster Abbey.

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Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,
As they met and exchang'd salute--
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,
Poor Cotton, half famish'd on foot):

"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil
To hint at starvation before you,
Look down on a poor hungry devil,
And give him some bread, I implore you!"

Quoth Corn, then, in answer to Cotton,
Perceiving he meant to make free --
"Low fellow, you've surely forgotten
The distance between you and me!

To expect that we, Peers of high birth,
Should waste our illustrious acres,
For no other purpose on earth
Than to fatten curst calico-makers! --

That Biships to hobbins should bend --
Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity,
Great dealers in lawn, to befriend
Such contemptible dealers in dimity!

"No -- vile Manufacture! ne'er harbour
A hope to be fed at our boards; --
Base offspring of Arkwright the barber,
What claim canst thou have upon Lords?

"No -- thanks to the taxes and debt,
And the triumph of paper o'er guineas,
Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,
May defy your whole rabble of Jennys!"

So saying -- whip, crack and away
Went Corn in his chaise through the throng,
So headlong, I heard them all say,
"Squire Corn would be down, before long."

(Thomas Moore, 1826)

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How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all
The Peers of realm about cheapening their corn,[1]
When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental,
'Tis hardly worth while being very high born?

Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life,
On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor in?
A question - like asking one, "How is your wife?" --
At once so confounded domestic and foreign.

As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast;
But Peers, and such animals, fed up for show,
(Like the well-physick'd elephant, lately deceas'd,)
Take wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

You might see, my dear Baron, how bor'd and distrest
Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale,
When the force of the agony wrung even a jest
From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord L-d-d-le![2]

Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave
A humour, endow'd with effects so provoking,
That, when the whole House looks unusually grave,
You may always conclude that Lord L-d-d-le's joking!

And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth -
Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms
Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth,
'Twixt those who have heir-looms, and those who've but looms!

"To talk now of starving!" - as great Ath-l said --[3]
(and nobles all cheer'd, and the bishops all wonder'd,)
"When, some years ago, he and others had fed
Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!"

It follows from hence - and the Duke's very words
Should be publish'd wherever poor rogues of this craft are --
That weavers, once rescued from starving by Lords,
Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after.

When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians
Made "Bread and the Circus" a cure for each row;
But not so the plan of our noble physicians,
"No Bread and the Tread-mill" 's the regimen now.

So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose,
As I shall my poetry -- neither convinces;
And all we have spoken and written but show,
When you tread on a nobleman's corn, how he winces.[4]

(Thomas Moore, 1826)

Notes:

[1] See the proceedings of Lords, Wednesday, March 1, 1826, when Lord King was severely reproved by several of the noble Peers, for making so many speeches against the Corn Laws.

[2] The noble Earl said that "when he heard the petition came from ladies' boot and shoe-makers, he thought it must be against the "corns" which they inflicted on the fair sex".

[3] The Duke of Athol said that "at a former period, when these weavers were in great distress, the landed interest of Perth had supported 1500 of them. It was a poor return for these very men now to petition against the persons who had fed them".

[4] An improvement, we flatter ourselves, on Lord L.'s joke.

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Dear Goddess of Corn, whom the ancients we know,
(Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,)
Adorn'd with somniferous poppies, to show,
Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.

Behold in his best, shooting-jacket, before thee,
An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches,
Great Queen of the Mark-lane (if the thing doesn't bore thee),
Thou'lt read o'er the last of his -- never-last speeches.

Ah! Ceres, thou know'st not the slander and scorn
Now heap'd upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted;
Improving on Hunt[1], 'tis no longer the Corn,
'Tis the growers of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.

In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us --
Reviewers, economists - fellows, no doubt,
That you, my dear Ceres, and Venus, and Bacchus,
And Gods of high fashion know little about.

There's B-nth-m, whose English is all his own making --
Who thinks just as little of settling a nation
As he would of smoking his pipe, or of taking
(What he, himself, calls) his "post-prandial vibration."[2]

There are two Mr. M---lls, too, whom those that love reading
Through all that's unreadable, call very clever; --
And whereas M---ll Senior makes war on good breeding,
M---ll Junior makes war on all breeding whatever!

In short, my dear Goddess, Old England's divided
Between ultra blockheads and superfine sages; --
With which of these classes we, landlords, have sided
Thou'lt find in my Speech, if thou'lt read a few pages.

For therein I've prov'd, to my own satisfaction,
And that of all 'Squires I've the honour of meeting,
That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouth'd detraction
To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.

On the contrary, such the "chaste notions"[3] of food
that dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart,
They would scorn any law, be it every so good,
That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art!

And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day,
When the Land and the Silk [4] shall, in fond combination,
(Like Sulky and Silky, that pair in the play [5])
Cry out, with one voice, High Rents and Starvation!

Long life to the Minister! -- no matter who,
Or how dull he may be, if, with dignified spirit, he
Keeps the ports shut -- and the people's mouth too, --
We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity.

And, as for myself, who've like Hannibal, sworn
To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us,
Had England but One to stand by thee, Dear Corn,
That last, honest Uni-Corn [6] would be Sir Th-m-s!

(Thomas Moore, 1826)

Notes:

[1] - A sort of "breakfast-powder" composed of roasted corn, was about this time introduced by Mr. Hunt, as a substitute for coffee.

[2] - The venerable Jeremy's phrase for his after-dinner walk.

[3] - A phrase in one Sir T-m-s's last speeches.

[4] - Great efforts were, at that time, making for the exclusion of foreign silk.

[5] - "Road to Ruin"

[6] - This is meant not so much for a pun, as in allusion to the natural history of the Unicorn, which is supposed to be something between the Bos and Asinus, and, as Rees's Cyclopaedia assures us, has a particular liking for every thing "chaste".

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A Donkey, whose talent for burdens was wondrous,
So much that you'd swear he rejoic'd in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous,
That -- down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road!

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze --
What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy,
So easy to drive, through the dirtiest ways,
For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hail'd" as a "brother"[1])
Had just been proclaiming his Donkey's renown
For vigour, for spirit, for one thing or another --
When, lo, 'mid his praises, the Donkey came down!

But, how to upraise him? - one shouts, t'other whistles,
While Jenky, the Conjurer, wisest of all,
Declar'd that an "over-production of thistles" --[2]
(Here Ned gave a stare) -- "was the cause of his fall."

Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes --
"There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease;
The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,
And this is his mode of transition to peace."

Some look'd at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces,
Pronounc'd that too long without shoes he had gone --
"Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis
(The wise-acres said), and he's sure to jog on."

Meanwhile, the poor Neddy, in torture and fear,
Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan;
And -- what was still dolefuller - lending an ear
To advisers, whose ears were a match for his own.

At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far
As to see others' folly, roar'd out, as he pass'd --
"Quick -- off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
Or, your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!"

(Thomas Moore, 1826)

Notes:

[1] Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge's, addressed to an Ass, and beginning, "I hail thee, brother!"

[2] A certain country gentleman having said in the House, "that we must return at last to the food of our ancestors", somebody asked Mr. T. "what food the gentlemean meant?" -- "Thistles, I suppose," answered Mr. T.

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"What! still those two infernal questions,
That with our meals our slumbers mix --
That spoil our tempers and digestions --
Eternal Corn and Catholics!

Gods! were there ever two such bores?
Nothing else talk'd of night or morn --
Nothing in doors, or out of doors,
But endless Catholics and Corn!

Never was such a brace of pests --
While Ministers, still worse than either,
Skill'd but in feathering their nests,
Plague us with both, and settle neither.

So addled in my cranium meet
Popery and Corn, that oft I doubt,
Whether this year, 'twas bonded Wheat
Or bonded Papists, they let out.

Here, landlords, here, polemics nail you,
Arm'd with all rubbish they can rake up;
Prices and Texts at once assail you --
From Daniel these, and those from Jacob.[1]

And when you sleep, with head still torn
Between the two, their shapes you mix,
Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn --
Then Corn again seems Catholics.

Now, Dantzic wheat before you floats --
Now, Jesuits from California --
Now, Ceres, link'd with Titus Oats,
Comes dancing through the "Porta Cornea."[2]

Oft, too, the Corn grows animate,
And a whole crop of heads appears,
Like Papists, bearding Church and State --
Themselves, together by the ears!

In short, these torments never cease;
And oft I wish myself transferr'd off
To some far, lonely land of peace,
Where Corn or Papists ne'er were heard of.

Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole,
For -- if my fate is to be chosen
'Twixt bores and icebergs -- on my soul,
I'd rather, of the two, be frozen!

(Thomas Moore, 1826)

Notes:

[1] Author of the late Report on Foreign Corn.

[2] The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, &tc.) to pass.

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Come with me, and we will blow
Lots of bubbles, as we go;
Bubbles bright as ever Hope
Drew from fancy -- or from soap;
Bright as e'er the South Sea sent
from its frothy element!
Come with me, and we will blow
Lots of bubbles, as we go.
Mix the lather, Johnny W--lks,
Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks;[1]
Mix the lather - who can be
Fitter for such task than thee,
Great M.P. for Sudsbury!

For the frothy charm is ripe,
Puffing Peter [2] bring thy pipe, --
Thou, whom ancient Coventry,
Once so dearly lov'd, that she
Knew not which to her was sweeter,
Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter; --
Puff the bubbles high in air,
Puff thy best to keep them there.

Bravo, bravo, Peter M--re!
Now the rainbow humbugs [3] soar,
Glitt'ring all with golden hues,
Such as haunt the dreams of Jews; --
Some reflecting mines that lie
Under Chili's glowing sky,
Some, those virgin pearls that sleep
Cloister'd in the southern deep;
Others, as if lent a ray
Form the streaming Milky Way,
Glist'ning o'er with curds and whey
From the cows of Alderney.

Now's the moment -- who shall first
Catch the buble, ere they burst?
Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run,
Br-gd-n, T-ynh-m, P-lm-t-n; --
John W--lks junior runs beside ye!
Take the good the knaves provide ye! [4]
See, with upturn'd eyes and hands,
Where the Shareman [5], Bri-gd-n, stands,
Gaping for the froth to fall
Down his gullet - lye and all.
See!---But hark my time is out --
Now, like some great water-spout,
Scaterr'd by the cannon's thunder,
Burst, ye bubbles, burst asunder!

[Here the stage darkens - a discordant crash is heard from the orchestra - the broken bubbles descend in a saponaceous but uncleanly mist over the heads of the Dramatis Personae, and the scene drops, leaving the bubble-hunters -- all in the suds]

(Thomas Moore, 1826)

Notes:

[1] Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes to names. Marvell thought so, when he wrote "Sir Edward Sutton, The foolish Knight, who rhymes to mutton."

[2] The member, during a long period, for Coventry.

[3] An humble imitation of one of our modern poets, who, in a poem against the War, after describing the splendid habilements of the soldier, thus apostrophizes him "thou rainbow ruffian!"

[4] "Lovely Thais sits beside thee:
Take the good the Greeks provide thee"

[5] So called by a sort of Tuscan dulcification of the ch in the word "Chairman".

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The Ghost of Miltiades came at night,
And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite,
And he said, in a voice, that thrill'd the frame,
"If ever the sound of Marathon's name
Hath fir'd they blood or flush'd thy brow,
Lover of Liberty, rise thee now!"

The Benthamite, yawning, left his bed --
Away to the Stock Exchange he sped,
And he found the Scrip of Greece so high,
That it fir'd his blood, it flush'd his eye,
And oh, 'twas a sight to see,
For never was Greek more Greek than he!
And still as the premium higher went,
His ecstas rose - so much per cent.,
(As we see in a glass, that tells the weather,
The heat and the silver rise together,)
And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip,
While a voice from pocket whisper'd "Scrip!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came again; --
He smil'd as the pale moon smiles through rain,
For his soul was glad at the patriot strain;
(And poor, dear ghost -- how little he knew
The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!)
"Blessings and thanks!" was all he said,
Then, melting away, like a night-dream, fled!

The Benthamite hears -- amaz'd that ghosts
Could be such fools -- and away he posts,
A patriot still? Ah no, ah no --
Goddess of Freedom, thy scrip is low,
And, warm and fond as they lovers are,
Thou triest their passion, when under par.
The Benthamite's ardour fast decays,
By turns he weeps, and swears, and prays,
And wishes the d--l had Crescent and Cross,
Ere he had been forc'd to sell at a loss.
They quote him the Stock of various nations,
But, spite of his classical associations,
Lord how he loathes the Greek quotations!

"Who'll buy my Scrip! Who'll buy my Scrip?"
Is now the theme of the patriot's lip,
And he runs to tell how hard his lot is
To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis,
And says, "Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake,
Do buy my Scrip and I vow to break
Those dark, unholy bonds of thine --
If you'll only consent to buy up mine!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came once more; --
His brow, like the night, was lowering o'er,
And he said, with a look that flash'd dismay,
"Of Liberty's foes the worst are they
Who turn to a trade her cause divine,
And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine!"
Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight,
Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite,
Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry --
And vanish'd away to the Stygian ferry!

(Thomas Moore, 1828?)

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Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions!
And oh, above all, I admire that Decree,
In which thou command'st, that all she politicians
Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea.

'Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster --
A maid, who her faith in old Jeremy puts;
Who talks, with a lisp, of the "last new Westminster,"
And hopes you're delighted with "Mill upon Gluts";

Who tells you how clever one Mr. Fun-blank is,
How charming his Articles 'gainst the Nobility; --
And assures you that even a gentleman's rank is,
In Jeremy's school, of no sort of utility.

To see her, ye Gods, a new number perusing --
Art. 1 - "On the Needle's variations", by Pl--e; [1]
Art. 2 - By her fav'rite Fun-blank [2] - so amusing!
"Dear man! he makes poetry quite a Law case."

Art. 3 -"Upon Fallacies", Jeremy's own --
(Chief Fallacy being, his hope to find readers); -
Art. 4 - "Upon Honesty", author unkown; --
Art. 5 - (by the young Mr. M--) "Hints to Breeders".

Oh, Sultan, oh, Sultan, though oft for the bag
And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call --
Though drowning's too good for each blue-stocking hag,
I would bag this she Benthamite first of them all!

And, lest she should ever again lift her head
From the watery bottom, her clack to renew --
As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead,
I would hang round her neck her own darling Review.

(Thomas Moore, 1826)

Notes:

[1] A celebrated political tailor.

[2] This pains-taking gentleman has been at the trouble of counting, with the assistance of Corker, the number of metaphors in Moore's "Life of Sheridan" and found them to amount, as nearly as possible, to 2,235 and some fractions.

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