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Title: Musings Of An Unreformed Peer
Author: Thomas Moore [
More Titles by Moore]
Of all the odd plans of this monstrously queer age,
The oddest is that of reforming the peerage;--
Just as if we, great dons, with a title and star,
Did not get on exceedingly well as we are,
And perform all the functions of noodles by birth
As completely as any born noodles on earth.
How _acres_ descend, is in law-books displayed,
But we as _wise_acres descend, ready made;
And by right of our rank in Debrett's nomenclature,
Are all of us born legislators by nature;--
Like ducklings to water instinctively taking,
So we with like quackery take to lawmaking;
And God forbid any reform should come o'er us,
To make us more wise than our sires were before us.
The Egyptians of old the same policy knew--
If your sire was a cook, you must be a cook too:
Thus making, from father to son, a good trade of it,
Poisoners _by right_ (so no more could be said of it),
The cooks like our lordships a pretty mess made of it;
While, famed for _conservative_ stomachs, the Egyptians
Without a wry face bolted all the prescriptions.
It is true, we've among us some peers of the past,
Who keep pace with the present most awfully fast--
Fruits that ripen beneath the new light now arising
With speed that to _us_, old conserves, is surprising.
Conserves, in whom--potted, for grandmamma uses--
'Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices.
'Tis true too. I fear, midst the general movement,
Even _our_ House, God help it, is doomed to improvement,
And all its live furniture, nobly descended
But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended.
With _movables_ 'mong us, like Brougham and like Durham,
No wonder even _fixtures_ should learn to bestir 'em;
And distant, ye gods, be that terrible day,
When--as playful Old Nick, for his pastime, they say,
Flies off with old houses, sometimes, in a storm--
So _ours_ may be whipt off, some night, by Reform;
And as up, like Loretto's famed house,[1] thro' the air,
Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear,
Grim, radical phizzes, unused to the sky,
Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us "good-by,"
While perched up on clouds little imps of plebeians,
Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Paeans.
NOTE:
[1] The _Casa Santa_, supposed to have been carried by angels through the air from Galilee to Italy.
[The end]
Thomas Moore's poem: Musings Of An Unreformed Peer
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