English poem
Rival Topics.[1]
by Thomas Moore
AN EXTRAVAGANZA.
Oh Wellington and Stephenson, Oh morn and evening papers, _Times_, _Herald_, _Courier_, _Globe_, and _Sun_, When will ye cease our ears to stun With these two heroes' capers? Still "Stephenson" and "Wellington," The everlasting two!-- Still doomed, from rise to set of sun, To hear what mischief one has done, And t'other means to do:-- What bills the banker past to friends, But never meant to pay; What Bills the other wight intends, As honest, in their way;-- Bills, payable at distant sight, Beyond the Grecian kalends, When all good deeds will come to light, When Wellington will do what's right, And Rowland pay his balance.
To catch the banker all have sought, But still the rogue unhurt is; While t'other juggler--who'd have thought? Tho' slippery long, has just been caught By old Archbishop Curtis;-- And, such the power of papal crook, The crosier scarce had quivered About his ears, when, lo! the Duke Was of a Bull delivered! Sir Richard Birnie doth decide That Rowland "must be mad," In private coach, with crest, to ride, When chaises could be had. And t'other hero, all agree, St. Luke's will soon arrive at, If thus he shows off publicly, When he might pass in private. Oh Wellington, oh Stephenson, Ye ever-boring pair, Where'er I sit, or stand, or run, Ye haunt me everywhere. Tho' Job had patience tough enough, Such duplicates would try it; Till one's turned out and t'other off, We Shan have peace or quiet. But small's the chance that Law affords-- Such folks are daily let off; And, 'twixt the old Bailey and the Lords, They both, I fear, will get off.
The date of this squib must have been, I think, about 1828-9.
THE BOY STATESMAN.
BY A TORY.
"That boy will be the death of me." _Matthews at Home_.
Ah, Tories dear, our ruin is near, With Stanley to help us, we cant but fall; Already a warning voice I hear, Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear, "That boy--that boy'll be the death of you all."
He will, God help us!--not even Scriblerius In the "Art of Sinking" his match could be; And our case is growing exceeding serious, For, all being in the same boat as he, If down my Lord goes, down go we, Lord Baron Stanley and Company, As deep in Oblivion's swamp below As such "Masters Shallow," well could go; And where we shall all both low and high, Embalmed in mud, as forgotten lie As already doth Graham of Netherby! But that boy, that boy!--there's a tale I know, Which in talking of him comes à_propos_. Sir Thomas More had an only son, And a foolish lad was that only one, And Sir Thomas said one day to his wife, "My dear, I cant but wish you joy. "For you prayed for a boy, and you now have a boy, "Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life."
Even such is our own distressing lot, With the ever-young statesman we have got; Nay even still worse; for Master More Wasn't more a youth than he'd been before, While _ours_ such power of boyhood shows, That the older he gets the more juvenile he grows, And at what extreme old age he'll close His schoolboy course, heaven only knows;-- Some century hence, should he reach so far, And ourselves to witness it heaven condemn, We shall find him a sort of _cub_ Old Parr, A whipper-snapper Methusalem; Nay, even should he make still longer stay of it, The boy'll want _judgment_, even to the day of it! Meanwhile, 'tis a serious, sad infliction; And day and night with awe I recall The late Mr. Matthews' solemn prediction, "That boy'll be the death, the death of you all."