Song Of The Poco-Curante Society.

A poem by Thomas Moore

haud curat Hippoclides.
ERASM. Adag.

To those we love we've drank tonight;
But now attend and stare not,
While I the ampler list recite
Of those for whom WE CARE NOT.

For royal men, howe'er they frown,
If on their fronts they bear not
That noblest gem that decks a crown,
The People's Love--WE CARE NOT.

For slavish men who bend beneath
A despot yoke, yet dare not
Pronounce the will whose very breath
Would rend its links--WE CARE NOT.

For priestly men who covet sway
And wealth, tho' they declare not;
Who point, like finger-posts, the way
They never go--WE CARE NOT.

For martial men who on their sword,
Howe'er it conquers, wear not
The pledges of a soldier's word,
Redeemed and pure--WE CARE NOT.

For legal men who plead for wrong.
And, tho' to lies they swear not,
Are hardly better than the throng
Of those who do--WE CARE NOT.

For courtly men who feed upon
The land, like grubs, and spare not
The smallest leaf where they can sun
Their crawling limbs--WE CARE NOT.

For wealthy men who keep their mines
In darkness hid, and share not
The paltry ore with him who pines
In honest want--WE CARE NOT.

For prudent men who hold the power
Of Love aloof, and bare not
Their hearts in any guardless hour
To Beauty's shaft--WE CARE NOT.

For all, in short, on land or sea,
In camp or court, who are not,
Who never were, or e'er will be
Good men and true--WE CARE NOT.

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