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TO THOMAS MOORE.(1)

WHAT are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore ?
What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore ?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,

Which, Thomas Moore ?

But the Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore !
The Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore !
Masking and humming,
Fifing and drumming,
Guitarring and strumming,
Oh Thomas Moore !

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT.

WITH death doom'd to grapple

Beneath this cold slab, he

Who lied in the Chapel
Now lies in the Abbey.

(1) [See Vol. III. p. 319. antè.]

SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH,

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE.

To be the father of the fatherless,

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise

His offspring, who expired in other days To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,This is to be a monarch, and repress

Envy into unutterable praise.

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, For who would lift a hand, except to bless? Were it not easy, sir, and is't not sweet To make thyself beloved? and to be Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus

Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete, A despot thou, and yet thy people free, And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us.

Bologna, August 12. 1819. (1)

(1) ["So the prince has been repealing Lord Fitzgerald's forfeiture? Ecco un' sonetto? There, you dogs! there's a sonnet for you: you won't have such as that in a hurry from Fitzgerald. You may publish it with my name, an' ye wool. He deserves all praise, bad and good: it was a very noble piece of principality."- Lord B. to Mr. Murray.]

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIERES.

IF, for silver or for gold,

You could melt ten thousand pimples
Into half a dozen dimples,

Then your face we might behold,

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly;

Yet even then 'twould be d

d ugly.

ON MY WEDDING-DAY.

HERE's a happy new year! but with reason
I beg you'll permit me to say-
Wish me many returns of the season,
But as few as you please of the day.

EPIGRAM.

IN digging up your bones, Tom Paine,

Will. Cobbett has done well:

You visit him on earth again,

He'll visit you in hell.

STANZAS.

WHEN a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, Let him combat for that of his neighbours;

Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, And get knock'd on the head for his labours.

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,
And is always as nobly requited;

Then battle for freedom wherever you can,
And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted.

EPIGRAM.

THE world is a bundle of hay,
Mankind are the asses who pull;

Each tugs it a different way,

And the greatest of all is John Bull.

THE IRISH AVATAR.

I.

ERE the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his

II.

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won, Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her

cause.

III.

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, The castle still stands, and the senate's no more, And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.

IV.

To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.

V.

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves ! Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves!

VI.

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, To perform in the pageant the sovereign's partBut long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er! Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart!

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