Ode To Don Miguel.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Et tu, Brute!


1828.[1]


What! Miguel, not patriotic! oh, fy!
After so much good teaching 'tis quite a take-in, Sir;
First schooled as you were under Metternich's eye,
And then (as young misses say) "finisht" at Windsor![2]

I ne'er in my life knew a case that was harder;--
Such feasts as you had when you made us a call!
Three courses each day from his Majesty's larder,--
And now to turn absolute Don after all!!

Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter
Of each thing they write suit the way that they dine,
Roast sirloin for Epic, broiled devils for Satire,
And hotchpotch and trifle for rhymes such as mine.

That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt;--
Great Despots on bouilli served up à la Russe,[3]
Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout,
And your Viceroy of Hanover always on goose.

Some Dons too have fancied (tho' this may be fable)
A dish rather dear, if in cooking they blunder it;--
Not content with the common hot meat on a table,
They're partial (eh, Mig?) to a dish of cold under it![4]

No wonder a Don of such appetites found
Even Windsor's collations plebeianly plain;
Where the dishes most high that my Lady sends round
Are here Maintenon cutlets and soup à la Reine.

Alas! that a youth with such charming beginnings,
Should sink all at once to so sad a conclusion,
And what is still worse, throw the losings and winnings
Of worthies on 'Change into so much confusion!

The Bulls, in hysterics--the Bears just as bad--
The few men who have, and the many who've not tick,
All shockt to find out that that promising lad,
Prince Metternich's pupil, is--not patriotic!

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