The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 220

SONG OF THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF t.i.tHE.

"The parting Genius is with sighing sent."

MILTON.

It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er; I hear a Voice, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, From Dunfanaghy to Baltimore, And it saith, in sad, parsonic tone, "Great t.i.the and Small are dead and gone!"

Even now I behold your vanis.h.i.+ng wings, Ye Tenths of all conceivable things, Which Adam first, as Doctors deem, Saw, in a sort of night-mare dream,[1]

After the feast of fruit abhorred-- First indigestion on record!-- Ye decimate ducks, ye chosen chicks, Ye pigs which, tho' ye be Catholics, Or of Calvin's most select depraved, In the Church must have your bacon saved;-- Ye fields, where Labor counts his sheaves, And, whatsoever _himself_ believes, Must bow to the Establisht _Church_ belief, That the tenth is always a _Protestant_ sheaf;-- Ye calves of which the man of Heaven Takes _Irish_ t.i.the, one calf in seven;[2]

Ye tenths of rape, hemp, barley, flax, Eggs, timber, milk, fish and bees' wax; All things in short since earth's creation, Doomed, by the Church's dispensation, To suffer eternal decimation-- Leaving the whole _lay_-world, since then, Reduced to nine parts out of ten; Or--as we calculate thefts and arsons-- Just _ten per cent_. the worse for Parsons!

Alas! and is all this wise device For the saving of souls thus gone in a trice?-- The whole put down, in the simplest way, By the souls resolving _not_ to pay!

And even the Papist, thankless race Who have had so much the easiest case-- To _pay_ for our sermons doomed, 'tis true, But not condemned to _hear them_, too-- (Our holy business being, 'tis known, With the ears of their barley, not their own,) Even _they_ object to let us pillage By right divine their tenth of tillage, And, horror of horrors, even decline To find us in sacramental wine![3]

It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er, Ah! never shall rosy Rector more, Like the shepherds of Israel, idly eat, And make of his flock "a prey and meat."[4]

No more shall be his the pastoral sport Of suing his flock in the Bishop's Court, Thro' various steps, Citation, Libel-- _Scriptures_ all, but _not_ the Bible; Working the Law's whole apparatus, To get at a few predoomed potatoes, And summoning all the powers of wig, To settle the fraction of a pig!-- Till, parson and all committed deep In the case of "Shepherds _versus_ Sheep,"

The Law usurps the Gospel's place, And on Sundays meeting face to face, While Plaintiff fills the preacher's station, Defendants form the congregation.

So lives he, Mammon's priest, not Heaven's, For _tenths_ thus all at _sixes_ and _sevens_, Seeking what parsons love no less Than tragic poets--a good _distress_.

Instead of studying St. Augustin, Gregory Nyss., or old St. Justin (Books fit only to h.o.a.rd dust in), His reverence stints his evening readings To learned Reports of t.i.the Proceedings, Sipping the while that port so ruddy, Which forms his only _ancient_ study;-- Port so old, you'd swear its tartar Was of the age of Justin Martyr, And, had he sipt of such, no doubt His martyrdom would have been--to gout.

Is all then lost?--alas, too true-- Ye Tenths beloved, adieu, adieu!

My reign is o'er, my reign is o'er-- Like old Thumb's ghost, "I can no more."

[1] A reverend prebendary of Hereford, in an Essay on the Revenues of the Church of England, has a.s.signed the origin of t.i.thes to "some unrecorded revelation made to Adam."

[2] "The tenth calf is due to the parson of common right; and if there are seven he shall have one."--REES'S _Cyclopaedia_, art. "_t.i.thes_."

[3] Among the specimens laid before Parliament of the sort of Church rates levied upon Catholics in Ireland, was a charge of two pipes of port for sacramental wine.

[4] Ezekiel, x.x.xiv., 10.--"Neither shall the shepherds feed themselves any more; for I will deliver my flock from their mouth, that they may not be meat for them."

THE EUTHANASIA OF VAN.

"We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out. If it be so why not let us die in peace?"

--LORD BEXLEY'S _Letter to the Freeholders of Kent_.

Stop, Intellect, in mercy stop, Ye curst improvements, cease; And let poor Nick Vansittart drop Into his grave in peace.

Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun, Young Freedom, veil thy head; Let nothing good be thought or done, Till Nick Vansittart's dead!

Take pity on a dotard's fears, Who much doth light detest; And let his last few drivelling years Be dark as were the rest.

You too, ye fleeting one-pound notes, Speed not so fast away-- Ye rags on which old Nicky gloats, A few months longer stay.

Together soon, or much I err, You _both_ from life may go-- The notes unto the scavenger, And Nick--to Nick below.

Ye Liberals, whate'er your plan, Be all reforms suspended; In compliment to dear old Van, Let nothing bad be mended.

Ye Papists, whom oppression wrings, Your cry politely cease, And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings That Van may die in peace.

So shall he win a fame sublime By few old rag-men gained; Since all shall own, in Nicky's time, Nor sense nor justice reigned.

So shall his name thro' ages past, And dolts ungotten yet, Date from "the days of Nicholas,"

With fond and sad regret;--

And sighing say, "Alas, had he "Been spared from Pluto's bowers, "The blessed reign of Bigotry "And Rags might still be ours!"

TO THE REVEREND ----.

ONE OF THE SIXTEEN REQUISITIONISTS OF NOTTINGHAM.

1828.

What, _you_, too, my ******, in hashes so knowing, Of sauces and soups Aristarchus profest!

Are _you_, too, my savory Brunswicker, going To make an old fool of yourself with the rest?

Far better to stick to your kitchen receipts; And--if you want _something_ to tease--for variety, Go study how Ude, in his "Cookery," treats Live eels when he fits them for polisht society.

Just snuggling them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire, He leaves them to wriggle and writhe on the coals,[1]

In a manner that Horner himself would admire, And wish, 'stead of _eels_, they were Catholic souls.

Ude tells us the fish little suffering feels; While Papists of late have more sensitive grown; So take my advice, try your hand at live eels, And for _once_ let the other poor devils alone.

I have even a still better receipt for your cook-- How to make a goose die of confirmed _hepat.i.tis;_[2]

And if you'll, for once, _fellow_-feelings o'erlook, A well-tortured goose a most capital sight is.

First, catch him, alive--make a good steady fire-- Set your victim before it, both legs being tied, (As if left to himself he _might_ wish to retire,) And place a large bowl of rich cream by his side.

There roasting by inches, dry, fevered, and faint, Having drunk all the cream you so civilly laid, off, He dies of as charming a liver complaint As ever sleek person could wish a pie made of.

Besides, only think, my dear one of Sixteen, What an emblem this bird, for the epicure's use meant.

Presents of the mode in which Ireland has been Made a tid-bit for yours and your brethren's amus.e.m.e.nt: