The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 224

Resolved our thanks profoundly due are To last month's Quarterly Reviewer, Who proves by arguments so clear (One sees how much he holds _per_ year) That England's Church, tho' out of date, Must still be left to lie in state, As dead, as rotten and as grand as The mummy of King Osymandyas, All pickled snug--the brains drawn out-- With costly cerements swathed about,-- And "Touch me not," those words terrific, Scrawled o'er her in good hieroglyphic.

[1] One of the questions propounded to the Puritans in 1573 was--"Whether the Book of Service was good and G.o.dly, every t.i.ttle grounded on the Holy Scripture?" On which an honest Dissenter remarks--"Surely they had a wonderful opinion of their Service Book that there was not a _t.i.ttle_ amiss, in it."

[2] "They," the Bishops, "know that the primitive Church had no such Bishops. If the fourth part of the bishopric remained unto the Bishop, it were sufficient."--_On the Commandments_, p. 72.

[3] "Since the Prelates were made Lords and n.o.bles, the plough standeth, there is no work done, the people starve."--_Lat. Serm_.

[4] "Of whom have come all these glorious t.i.tles, styles, and pomps into the Church. But I would that I, and all my brethren, the Bishops, would leave all our styles, and write the styles of our offices," etc.--_Life of Cranmer, by Strype, Appendix_.

SIR ANDREW'S DREAM.

"_nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis: c.u.m pia venerunt somnia, pondus liubent_."

PROPERT. _lib. iv. eleg_. 7.

As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late, In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate, Being much too pious, as every one knows, To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze, He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man, And I'll tell you his dream as well as I can.

He found himself, to his great amaze, In Charles the First's high Tory days, And just at the time that gravest of Courts Had publisht its Book of Sunday Sports.[1]

_Sunday_ Sports! what a thing for the ear Of Andrew even in sleep to hear!-- It chanced to be too a Sabbath day When the people from church were coming away; And Andrew with horror heard this song.

As the smiling sinners flockt along;-- "Long life to the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!

"For a week of work and a Sunday of play "Make the poor man's life run merry away."

"The Bishops!" quoth Andrew, "Popish, I guess,"

And he grinned with conscious holiness.

But the song went on, and, to brim the cup Of poor Andy's grief, the fiddles struck up!

"Come, take out the la.s.ses--let's have a dance-- "For the Bishops allow us to skip our fill, "Well knowing that no one's the more in advance "On the road to heaven, for standing still.

"Oh! it never was meant that grim grimaces "Should sour the cream of a creed of love; "Or that fellows with long, disastrous faces, "Alone should sit among cherubs above.

"Then hurrah for the Bishops, etc.

"For Sunday fun we never can fail, "When the Church herself each sport points out;-- "There's May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale, "And a May-pole high to dance about.

"Or should we be for a pole hard driven, "Some lengthy saint of aspect fell, "With his pockets on earth and his nose in heaven, "Will do for a May-pole just as well.

"Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!

"A week of work and a Sabbath of play "Make the poor man's life run merry away."

To Andy, who doesn't much deal in history, This Sunday scene was a downright mystery; And G.o.d knows where might have ended the joke, But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke, And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes) That since that dream--which, one would suppose, Should have made his G.o.dly stomach rise.

Even more than ever 'gainst Sunday pies-- He has viewed things quite with different eyes; Is beginning to take, on matters divine, Like Charles and his Bishops, the _sporting_ line-- Is all for Christians jigging in pairs, As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers:-- Nay, talks of getting Archbishop Howley To bring in a Bill enacting duly That all good Protestants from this date May freely and lawfully recreate, Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody, With Jack in the Straw or Punch and Judy.

[1] _The Book of Sports_ drawn up by Bishop Moreton was first put forth in the reign of James I., 1618, and afterwards republished, at the advice of Laud, by Charles I., 1633, with an injunction that it should be "made public by order from the Bishops." We find it therein declared, that "for his good people's recreation, his Majesty's pleasure was, that after the end of divine service they should not be disturbed, letted, or discouraged from any lawful recreations, such as dancing, either of men or women, archery for men, leaping, vaulting, or any such harmless recreations, nor having of May-games, Whitsun-ales, or Morris-dances, or setting up of May poles, or other sports therewith used." etc.

A BLUE LOVE SONG.

TO MISS-----.

Air-"_Come live with me and be my love_."

Come wed with me and we will write, My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.

Chased from our cla.s.sic souls shall be All thoughts of vulgar progeny; And thou shalt walk through smiling rows Of chubby duodecimos, While I, to match thy products nearly, Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly.

'Tis true, even books entail some trouble; But _live_ productions give one double.

Correcting children is _such_ bother,-- While printers' devils correct the other.

Just think, my own Malthusian dear, How much more decent 'tis to hear From male or female--as it may be-- "How is your book?" than "How's your baby?"

And whereas physic and wet nurses Do much exhaust paternal purses, Our books if rickety may go And be well dry-nurst in _the Row_; And when G.o.d wills to take them hence, Are buried at _the Row's_ expense.

Besides, (as 'tis well proved by thee, In thy own Works, vol. 93.) The march, just now, of population So much outscrips all moderation, That even prolific herring-shoals Keep pace not with our erring souls.[1]

Oh far more proper and well-bred To stick to writing books instead; And show the world how two Blue lovers Can coalesce, like two book-covers, (Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,) Lettered at back and st.i.tched together Fondly as first the binder fixt 'em, With naught but--literature betwixt 'em.

[1] See "Ella of Garveloch."--Garveloch being a place where there was a large herring-fishery, but where, as we are told by the author, "the people increased much faster than the produce."

SUNDAY ETHICS.

A SCOTCH ODE.

Puir, profligate Londoners, having heard tell That the De'il's got amang ye, and fearing 'tis true, We ha' sent ye a mon wha's a match for his spell, A chiel o' our ain, that the De'il himsel Will be glad to keep clear of, ane Andrew Agnew.

So at least ye may reckon for one day entire In ilka lang week ye'll be tranquil eneugh, As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire, An' would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire Than pa.s.s a hale Sunday wi' Andrew Agnew.

For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way, He'd na let a cat on the Sabbath say "mew;"

Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play, An Phoebus himsel could na travel that day.

As he'd find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.

Only hear, in your Senate, how awfu' he cries, "Wae, wae to a' sinners who boil an' who stew!

"Wae, wae to a' eaters o' Sabbath baked pies, "For as surely again shall the crust thereof rise "In judgment against ye," saith Andrew Agnew!

Ye may think, from a' this, that our Andie's the lad To ca' o'er the coals your n.o.beelity too; That their drives, o' a Sunday, wi' flunkies,[1] a' clad Like Shawmen, behind 'em, would mak the mon mad-- But he's nae sic a noodle, our Andie Agnew.