The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 93

EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS MOORE.

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson LOW (By name, and ah! by nature so), As thou art fond of persecutions, Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated, How Captain Gulliver was treated, When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down-these little men did-- And having valiantly ascended Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance, They did so strut!--upon my soul, It must have been extremely droll To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins Amused themselves with sticking pins And needles in the great man's breeches; And how some VERY little things, That pa.s.s'd for Lords, on scaffoldings Got up and worried him with speeches.

Alas! alas! that it should happen To mighty men to be caught napping!-- Though different, too, these persecutions For Gulliver, THERE, took the nap, While, HERE, the NAP, oh sad mishap, Is taken by the Lilliputians!

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS DUKE OF c.u.mBERLAND.

Said his Highness to NED, with that grim face of his, "Why refuse us the VETO, dear Catholic NEDDY?"-- "Because, sir" said NED, looking full in his phiz, "You're FORBIDDING enough, in all conscience, already!"

TO MISS -----

With woman's form and woman's tricks So much of man you seem to mix, One knows not where to take you; I pray you, if 'tis not too far, Go, ask of Nature WHICH you are, Or what she meant to make you.

Yet stay--you need not take the pains With neither beauty, youth, nor brains, For man or maid's desiring: Pert as female, fool as male, As boy too green, as girl too stale The thing's not worth inquiring!

TO -----

Die when you will, you need not wear At heaven's court a form more fair Than Beauty here on earth has given; Keep but the lovely looks we see The voice we hear and you will be An angel READY-MADE for heaven!

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

Between Adam and me the great difference is, Though a paradise each has been forced to resign, That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his, While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

QUEST.-Why is a Pump like Viscount CASTLEREAGH?

ANSW.-Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

FROM THE FRENCH.

Of all the men one meets about, There's none like Jack--he's everywhere: At church--park--auction--dinner--rout-- Go when and where you will, he's there.

Try the West End, he's at your back-- Meets you, like Eurus, in the East-- You're call'd upon for "How do, Jack?"

One hundred times a-day, at least.

A friend of his one evening said, As home he took his pensive way, "Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead-- I've seen him but three times to-day!"

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-- It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."-- "Why, so it is, father--whose wife shall I take?"

THE SURPRISE.

Doloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more.-- "What! love no more? Oh! why this alter'd vow?

Because I CAN NOT love thee MORE--than NOW!"

ON ----.

Like a snuffers, this loving old dame, By a destiny grievous enough, Though so oft she has snapp'd at the flame, Hath never more than the snuff.

ON A SQUINTING POETESS.

To no ONE Muse does she her glance confine, But has an eye, at once to ALL THE NINE!

ON A TUET-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside his place the G.o.d of Wit, Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a STAR he'd quit, And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did n.i.g.g.ard fate no peers afford, He took, of course, to peers' relations; And, rather than not sport a lord, Put up with even the last creations.

Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call, And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some n.o.ble nook, For, rest his soul, he'd rather be Genteelly d.a.m.n'd beside a Duke, Than saved in vulgar company.

THE KISS.

Give me, my love, that billing kiss I taught you one delicious night, When, turning epicures in bliss, We tried inventions of delight.

Come, gently steal my lips along, And let your lips in murmurs move Ah, no!--again--that kiss was wrong How can you be so dull, my love?

"Cease, cease!" the blus.h.i.+ng girl replied And in her milky arms she caught me "How can you thus your pupil chide; You know 'T WAS IN THE DARK you taught me!"

EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET--(ROBERT SOUTHEY.)

Beneath these poppies buried deep, The bones of Bob the bard lie hid; Peace to his manes; and may he sleep As soundly as his readers did!

Through every sort of verse meandering, Bob went without a hitch or fall, Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine, To verse that was no verse at all;

Till fiction having done enough, To make a bard at least absurd, And give his readers QUANTUM SUFF., He took to praising George the Third: And now, in virtue of his crown, Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter, Like Donellan of bad renown, Poisoning us all with laurel-water.