Reflections. Addressed To The Author Of The Article Of The Church In The Last Number Of The Quarterly Review.

A poem by Thomas Moore

I'm quite of your mind;--tho' these Pats cry aloud
That they've got "too much Church," 'tis all nonsense and stuff;
For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed
That even too much of it's not quite enough.

Ay! dose them with parsons, 'twill cure all their ills;--
Copy Morrison's mode when from pill-box undaunted he
Pours thro' the patient his black-coated pills,
Nor cares what their quality, so there's but quantity.

I verily think 'twould be worth England's while
To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether
'Twould not be as well to give up the green isle
To the care, wear and tear of the Church altogether.

The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant;
The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet,[1]
And now if King William would make them a present
To t'other chaste lady--ye Saints, just imagine it!

Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief,
Might then all be culled from the episcopal benches;
While colonels in black would afford some relief
From the hue that reminds one of the old scarlet wench's.

Think how fierce at a charge (being practised therein)
The Right Reverend Brigadier Phillpotts would slash on!
How General Blomfield, thro' thick and thro' thin,
To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would dash on!

For in one point alone do the amply fed race
Of bishops to beggars similitude bear--
That, set them on horseback, in full steeple chase,
And they'll ride, if not pulled up in time--you know where.

But, bless you! in Ireland, that matters not much,
Where affairs have for centuries gone the same way;
And a good stanch Conservative's system is such
That he'd back even Beelzebub's long-founded sway.

I am therefore, dear Quarterly, quite of your mind;--
Church, Church, in all shapes, into Erin let's pour:
And the more she rejecteth our medicine so kind.
The more let's repeat it--"Black dose, as before."

Let Coercion, that peace-maker, go hand in hand
With demure-eyed Conversion, fit sister and brother;
And, covering with prisons and churches the land,
All that won't go to one, we'll put into the other.

For the sole, leading maxim of us who're inclined
To rule over Ireland, not well but religiously,
Is to treat her like ladies who've just been confined
(Or who ought to be so), and to church her prodigiously.

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