An Incantation. Sung By The Bubble Spirit.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Air.--Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow.


Come with me and we will blow
Lots of bubbles as we go;
Bubbles bright as ever Hope
Drew from fancy--or from soap;
Bright as e'er the South Sea sent
From its frothy element!
Come with me and we will blow
Lots of bubbles as we go.
Mix the lather, Johnny Wilks,
Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks;[1]
Mix the lather--who can be
Fitter for such tasks than thee,
Great M. P. for Sudsbury!

Now the frothy charm is ripe,
Puffing Peter,[2] bring thy pipe,--
Thou whom ancient Coventry
Once so dearly loved that she
Knew not which to her was sweeter,
Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter;--
Puff the bubbles high in air,
Puff thy best to keep them there.

Bravo, bravo, Peter More!
Now the rainbow humbugs[3] soar.
Glittering all with golden hues
Such as haunt the dreams of Jews;--
Some reflecting mines that lie
Under Chili's glowing sky,
Some, those virgin pearls that sleep
Cloistered in the southern deep;
Others, as if lent a ray
From the streaming Milky Way,
Glistening o'er with curds and whey
From the cows of Alderney.

Now's the moment--who shall first
Catch the bubbles ere they burst?
Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run,
Brogden, Teynham, Palmerston;--
John Wilks junior runs beside ye!
Take the good the knaves provide ye!
See, with upturned eyes and hands,
Where the Shareman, Brogden, stands,
Gaping for the froth to fall
Down his gullet--lye and all.
See!--

But, hark, my time is out--
Now, like some great water-spout,
Scattered by the cannon's thunder,
Burst ye bubbles, all asunder!

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