To The Ship In Which Lord Castlereagh Sailed For The Continent.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3.

So may my Lady's prayers prevail,
And Canning's too, and lucid Bragge's,
And Eldon beg a favoring gale
From Eolus, that older Bags,
To speed thee on thy destined way,
Oh ship, that bearest our Castlereagh,
Our gracious Regent's better half
And therefore quarter of a King--
(As Van or any other calf
May find without much figuring).
Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes,
Waft this Lord of place and pelf,
Any where his Lordship pleases,
Tho' 'twere to Old Nick himself!

Oh, what a face of brass was his.
Who first at Congress showed his phiz--
To sign away the Rights of Man
To Russian threats and Austrian juggle;
And leave the sinking African
To fall without one saving struggle--
'Mong ministers from North and South,
To show his lack of shame and sense,
And hoist the sign of "Bull and Mouth"
For blunders and for eloquence!

In vain we wish our Secs, at home
To mind their papers, desks, and shelves,
If silly Secs, abroad will roam
And make such noodles of themselves.

But such hath always been the case--
For matchless impudence of face,
There's nothing like your Tory race!
First, Pitt, the chosen of England, taught her
A taste for famine, fire and slaughter.
Then came the Doctor, for our ease,
With Eldons, Chathams, Hawksburies,
And other deadly maladies.
When each in turn had run their rigs,
Necessity brought in the Whigs:

And oh! I blush, I blush to say,
When these, in turn, were put to flight, too,
Illustrious TEMPLE flew away
With lots of pens he had no right to.[1]
In short, what will not mortal man do?
And now, that--strife and bloodshed past--
We've done on earth what harm we can do,
We gravely take to heaven at last
And think its favoring smile to purchase
(Oh Lord, good Lord!) by--building churches!

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