Copy Of An Intercepted Despatch.

A poem by Thomas Moore


St. James's Street, July 1, 1826.

Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch
An official young demon, preparing to go,
Ready booted and spurred, with a black-leg despatch
From the Hell here at Crockford's, to our Hell below--

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic,
To say that first having obeyed your directions
And done all the mischief I could in "the Panic,"
My next special care was to help the Elections.

Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul,
When every good Christian tormented his brother,
And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal,
From all coming down, ready grilled by each other;

Remembering besides how it pained thee to part
With the old Penal Code--that chef-d'oeuvre of Law,
In which (tho' to own it too modest thou art)
We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;

I thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive,
(Tho' Eldon, with help from your Highness would try,)
'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive,
Could we get up a thundering No-Popery cry;--

That yell which when chorused by laics and clerics,
So like is to ours, in its spirit and tone.
That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics,
To think that Religion should make it her own.

So, having sent down for the original notes
Of the chorus as sung by your Majesty's choir
With a few pints of lava to gargle the throats
Of myself and some others who sing it "with fire,"[1]

Thought I, "if the Marseillais Hymn could command
"Such audience, tho' yelled by a Sans-culotte crew
"What wonders shall we do, who've men in our band,
"That not only wear breeches but petticoats too."

Such then were my hopes, but with sorrow, your Highness,
I'm forced to confess--be the cause what it will,
Whether fewness of voices or hoarseness or shyness,--
Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill.

The truth is no placeman now knows his right key,
The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various;
And certain base voices, that lookt for a fee
At the York music-meeting now think it precarious.

Even some of our Reverends might have been warmer,--
Tho' one or two capital roarers we've had;
Doctor Wise[2]is for instance a charming performer,
And Huntingdon Maberley's yell was not bad!

Altogether however the thing was not hearty;--
Even Eldon allows we got on but so so;
And when next we attempt a No-Popery party,
We must, please your Highness, recruit from below.

But hark! the young Black-leg is cracking his whip--
Excuse me, Great Sir-there's no time to be civil;--
The next opportunity shan't be let slip,
But, till then,
I'm, in haste, your most dutiful

July, 1826

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