Musings. Suggested By The Late Promotion Of Mrs. Nethercoat.

A poem by Thomas Moore

"The widow of Nethercoat is appointed jailer of Loughrea, in the room of her deceased husband."--Limerick Chronicle.

Whether as queens or subjects, in these days,
Women seem formed to grace alike each station:--
As Captain Flaherty gallantly says,
"You ladies, are the lords of the creation!"

Thus o'er my mind did prescient visions float
Of all that matchless woman yet may be;
When hark! in rumors less and less remote,
Came the glad news o'er Erin's ambient sea,
The important news--that Mrs. Nethercoat
Had been appointed jailer of Loughrea;
Yes, mark it, History--Nethercoat is dead,
And Mrs. N. now rules his realm instead;
Hers the high task to wield the uplocking keys,
To rivet rogues and reign o'er Rapparees!

Thus, while your blusterers of the Tory school
Find Ireland's sanest sons so hard to rule,
One meek-eyed matron in Whig doctrines nurst
Is all that's askt to curb the maddest, worst!

Show me the man that dares with blushless brow
Prate about Erin's rage and riot now;
Now, when her temperance forms her sole excess;
When long-loved whiskey, fading from her sight,
"Small by degrees and beautifully less,"
Will soon like other spirits vanish quite;
When of red coats the number's grown so small,
That soon, to cheer the warlike parson's eyes,
No glimpse of scarlet will be seen at all,
Save that which she of Babylon supplies;--
Or, at the most, a corporal's guard will be,
Of Ireland's red defence the sole remains;
While of its jails bright woman keeps the key,
And captive Paddies languish in her chains!

Long may such lot be Erin's, long be mine!
Oh yes--if even this world, tho' bright it shine,
In Wisdom's eyes a prison-house must be,
At least let woman's hand our fetters twine,
And blithe I'll sing, more joyous than if free,
The Nethercoats, the Nethercoats for me!

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