Vulgar words in The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore - Collected by Himself with Explanatory Notes (Page 1)
This book at a glance
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Should stand before thee with a tyrant's rod O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee, Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty; Away, away--I'd rather hold my neck By doubtful tenure from a sultan's beck, In climes, where liberty has scarce been named, Nor any right but that of ruling claimed, Than thus to live, where bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves; Where--motley laws admitting no degree Betwixt the vilely slaved and madly free-- Alike the bondage and the license suit The brute made ruler and the man made brute.
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And that, when we're far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips, we are near.
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what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
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what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
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Next turn we to the gay saloon, Resplendent as a summer noon, Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights, A Zodiac of flowers and tapers-- (Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)-- Quadrille performs her mazy rites, And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;-- Working to death each opera strain, As, with a foot that ne'er reposes, She jigs thro' sacred and profane, From "Maid and Magpie" up to "Moses;"--[3] Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes, Till fagged Rossini scarce respires; Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues, And Weber at her feet expires.
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"Here--judge if hell, with all its power to damn, "Can add one curse to the foul thing I am!"
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Ask who is wise?--you'll find the self-same man A sage in France, a madman in Japan; And _here_ some head beneath a mitre swells, Which _there_ had tingled to a cap and bells: Nay, there may yet some monstrous region be, Unknown to Cook and from Napoleon free, Where Castlereagh would for a patriot pass And mouthing Musgrave scarce be deemed an ass!
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The silent victim still to sit Of Grattan's fire and Canning's wit, To hear even noisy Mathew gabble on, Nor mention once the Whore of Babylon!
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[8] The salt-cellars on the Prince's _own_ table were in the form of an Ass with panniers.
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No want has he of sword or dagger, Cockt hat or ringlets of Geramb; Tho' Peers may laugh and Papists swagger, He doesnt care one single damn.
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In short, my dear Goddess, old England's divided Between _ultra_ blockheads and superfine sages;-- With _which_ of these classes we landlords have sided Thou'lt find in my Speech if thou'lt read a few pages.
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Each a different foe doth damn, When his own affairs have gone ill; Bankes he damneth Buckingham, Goulbourn damneth Dan O'Connell.
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[1] Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge's, addressed to an Ass, and beginning, "I hail thee, brother!"
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There is hardly a day of our lives But we read, in some amiable trials, How husbands make love to their wives Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials.
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"This comes of a man, the careless blockhead, "Keeping his character in his pocket; "And there--without considering whether "There's room for that and his gains together-- "Cramming and cramming and cramming away, "Till--out slips character some fine day!
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"With crumbs of gossip, caught from dining wits, "And half-heard jokes, bequeathed, like half-chewed bits, "To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;-- "With such ingredients served up oft before, "But with fresh fudge and fiction garnisht o'er, "I managed for some weeks to dose the town, "Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down; "And ready still even waiters' souls to damn, "The Devil but rang his bell, and--here I am;-- "Yes--'Coming _up_, Sir,' once my favorite cry, "Exchanged for 'Coming _down_, Sir,' here am I!"
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My reason's this:--the Priests of Isis, When forth they marched in long array, Employed, 'mong other grave devices, A Sacred Ass to lead the way; And still the antiquarian traces 'Mong Irish Lords this Pagan plan, For still in all religious cases They put Lord Roden in the van.
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Sir,-- Most of your readers are no doubt acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain not over-wise judge who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door.
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For of all repercussions of sound Concerning which bards make a pother, There's none like that happy rebound When one blockhead echoes an other;-- When Kenyon commences the bray, And the Borough-Duke follows his track; And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay Rathdowne brays, with interest, back!-- And while, of _most_ echoes the sound On our ear by reflection doth fall, These Brunswickers[3] pass the bray round, Without any reflection at all.
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Oh Scott, were I gifted like you, Who can name all the echoes there are From Benvoirlich to bold Benvenue, From Benledi to wild Uamvar; I might track thro' each hard Irish name The rebounds of this asinine strain, Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came To the _chief_ Neddy, Kenyon, again; Might tell how it roared in Rathdowne, How from Dawson it died off genteelly-- How hollow it hung from the crown Of the fat-pated Marquis of Ely; How on hearing my Lord of Glandine, Thistle-eaters the stoutest gave way, Outdone in their own special line By the forty-ass power of his bray!
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Or, on into Cambria straying, Find Kenyon, that double tongued elf, In his love of _ass_-cendency, braying A Brunswick duet with himself!
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Is the sentence launched from Apollo's throne; For Midas was given the ears of an ass, While Henley is doomed to keep his own!
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One ne'er could, of course, the Cits suspect, If we hadn't that evening chanced to see, At the robbed man's door a _Mare_ elect With an ass to keep her company.
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That hacking, hectoring blade of thine Dealt much in the _Domdaniel_ line; And 'tis but rendering justice due, To say that ours and his Tory crew _Damn Daniel_ most devoutly too.
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Ay--just at the time to show spunk, if you'd got any-- Kickt him and jawed him and _lagged_[6] him to Botany!
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No, no--it isnt right-line Kings, (Those sovereign lords in leading strings Who, from their birth, are Faith-Defenders,) That move my wrath--'tis your pretenders, Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth, Who--not, like t'others, bores by birth, Establisht _gratiâ Dei_ blockheads, Born with three kingdoms in their pockets-- Yet, with a brass that nothing stops, Push up into the loftiest stations, And, tho' too dull to manage shops, Presume, the dolts, to manage nations!
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While naught could they, whose heads were broke, Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore," Except that 'twas Religion's cloak The gentleman, who crackt them, wore, Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turned By the laced coat, grew frisky too; Lookt big--his former habits spurned-- And stormed about, as great men do: Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses-- Said "Damn you" often, or as bad-- Laid claim to other people's purses-- In short, grew either knaves or mad.
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between you and I, It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh To make love to me then--_you've_ a soul, and can judge What a crisis 'twould be for your friend BIDDY FUDGE!
~ ~ ~ Sentence 14,779 ~ ~ ~
REYNOLDS and I--(you know TOM REYNOLDS-- Drinks his claret, keeps his chaise-- Lucky the dog that first unkennels Traitors and Luddites now-a-days; Or who can help to _bag_ a few, When SIDMOUTH wants a death, or two;) REYNOLDS and I and some few more, All men like us of _information_, Friends whom his Lordship keeps in store, As _under_-saviors of the nation[1]-- Have, formed a Club this season, where His Lordship sometimes takes the chair, And gives us many a bright oration In praise of our sublime vocation; Tracing it up to great King MIDAS, Who, tho' in fable typified as A royal Ass, by grace, divine And right of ears, most asinine, Was yet no more, in fact historical, Than an exceeding well-bred tyrant; And these, his _ears_, but allegorical, Meaning Informers, kept at high rent-- Gem'men, who touched the Treasury glisteners, Like us, for being trusty listeners; And picking up each tale and fragment, For royal MIDAS'S Green Bag meant.
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Dear DICK, while old DONALDSON'S[1] mending my stays,-- Which I _knew_ would go smash with me one of these days, And, at yesterday's dinner, when, full to the throttle, We lads had begun our dessert with a bottle Of neat old Constantia, on _my_ leaning back Just to order another, by Jove, I went crack!-- Or, as honest TOM said, in his nautical phrase, "Damn my eyes, BOB, in _doubling_ the _Cape_ you've _missed stays_.
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Had _Dad_ but his way, he'd have long ago blown The whole batch to old Nick--and the _people_, I own, If for no other cause than their curst monkey looks, Well deserve a blow-up--but then, damn it, their Cooks!