And he thought that all the world over
In vain for a man you might seek,
Who could drink more like a Trojan
Or talk more like a Greek.

The Devil then he prophesied

It would one day be matter of talk,
That with wine when smitten,

And with wit moreover being happily bitten,
The erudite bibber was he who had written
The story of this walk.

A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil;
A pretty mistake I opine!

I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth,
He will never put good ones in mine.

And whoever shall say that to Porson
These best of all verses belong,
He is an untruth-telling whore-son,
And so shall be call'd in the song.

And if seeking an illicit connection with fame,
Any one else should put in a claim,

In this comical competition;

That excellent poem will prove

A man-trap for such foolish ambition,

Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg, And exposed in a second edition.

Now the morning air was cold for him
Who was used to a warm abode;
And yet he did not immediately wish,
To set out on his homeward road.

For he had some morning calls to make
Before he went back to Hell;

So thought he I'll step into a gaming-house,
And that will do as well;

But just before he could get to the door

A wonderful chance befell

For all on a sudden, in a dark place, He came upon General

-'s burning face;

And it struck him with such consternation,
That home in a hurry his way did he take,
Because he thought, by a slight mistake
'Twas the general conflagration.

CHURCH AND STATE.

THOMAS MOORE.

WHEN Royalty was young and bold,
Ere, touch'd by Time, he had become-

If 't is not civil to say old

At least, a ci-devant jeune homme.

One evening, on some wild pursuit,
Driving along, he chanced to see
Religion, passing by on foot,

And took him in his vis-à-vis.

This said Religion was a friar,
The humblest and the best of men,
Who ne'er had notion or desire
Of riding in a coach till then.

"I say"-quoth Royalty, who rather Enjoy'd a masquerading joke

"I say, suppose, my good old father, You lend me, for a while, your cloak."

The friar consented-little knew

What tricks the youth had in his head; Besides, was rather tempted, too,

By a laced coat he got in stead.

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash,

Scampering like mad about the town; Broke windows-shiver'd lamps to smash,

And knock'd whole scores of watchmen down.

While naught could they whose heads were broke, Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore," Except that 't was Religion's cloak

The gentleman, who crack'd them, wore.

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turn'd
By the laced coat, grew frisky too-
Look'd big-his former habits spurn'd—
And storm'd about as great men do—

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses-
Said "Damn you," often, or as bad—
Laid claim to other people's purses—
In short, grew either knave or mad.

As work like this was unbefitting,

And flesh and blood no longer bore it,
The Court of Common Sense then sitting,
Summon'd the culprits both before it;

Where, after hours in wrangling spent
(As courts must wrangle to decide well),
Religion to St. Luke's was sent,

And Royalty pack'd off to Bridewell:

With this proviso-Should they be
Restored in due time to their senses,

They both must give security

In future, against such offenses

Religion ne'er to lend his cloak,

Seeing what dreadful work it leads to;

And Royalty to crack his joke

But not to crack poor people's heads, too.

LYING.

I DO confess, in many a sigh,

THOMAS MOORE.

My lips have breath'd you many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?

Nay-look not thus, with brow reproving:
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!
If half we tell the girls were true,

If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
The world would be in strange confusion!
If ladies' eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy should leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes!
Oh no!-believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your yellow locks to golden wire,
Then, only then, can heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear!
Whenever you may chance to meet
A loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you 're false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures;
And while he lies, his heart is yours:
But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth!

THE MILLENNIUM.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRV-NG

CC ON PROPHECY."

THOMAS MOORE.

MILLENNIUM at hand!—I'm delighted to hear it—
As matters both public and private now go,
With multitudes round us, all starving or near it,
A good rich millennium will come à propos.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold,
Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags,
A bran-new Jerusalem, built all of gold,

Sound bullion throughout, from the roof to the flags

A city where wine and cheap corn shall abound

A celestial Cocaigne, on whose butterfly shelves

We may swear the best things of this world will be found, As your saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures elysian,
Divine Squintifobus, who, placed within reach
Of two opposite worlds by a twist of your vision
Can cast, at the same time, a sly look at each ;-

Thanks, thanks for the hopes thou hast given us, that we
May, even in our times a jubilee share,

Which so long has been promised by prophets like thee,
And so often has fail'd, we began to despair.

There was Whiston, who learnedly took Prince Eugene
For the man who must bring the Millennium about;
There's Faber, whose pious predictions have been
All belied, ere his book's first edition was out;-

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M.P.,
Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat,
And, each day of his life, sat expecting to see

A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh!

There was also-but why should I burden my lay
With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving,
When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way

To the last new Millennium of Orator Irv-ng.

Go on, mighty man-doom them all to the shelf

And, when next thou with prophecy troublest thy sconce,

Oh, forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself

Art the Beast (chapter 4) that sees nine ways at once!