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Title: Captain Rock In London
Author: Thomas Moore [
More Titles by Moore]
LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ.[1]
Here I am, at headquarters, dear Terry, once more,
Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before:
For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed crew,
You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to do;
So ready they're always, when dull we are growing,
To set our old concert of discord a-going,
While Lyndhurst's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face,
To play in such concert the true _double-base_.
I had feared this old prop of my realm was beginning
To tire of his course of political sinning,
And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past,
Meant by way of a change to try virtue at last.
But I wronged the old boy, who as staunchly derides
All reform in himself as in most things besides;
And, by using _two_ faces thro' life, all allow,
Has acquired face sufficient for _any_-thing now.
In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe,
My "Lord Harry" himself--who's the leader, we know,
Of another red-hot Opposition below--
If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but spares
Me and Lyndhurst, to look after Ireland's affairs,
We shall soon such a region of devilment make it,
That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it.
Even already--long life to such Bigwigs, say I,
For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die--
He has served our right riotous cause by a speech
Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach;
As it shows off both _his_ and _my_ merits alike,
Both the swell of the wig and the point of the pike;
Mixes up, with a skill which one can't but admire,
The lawyer's cool craft with the incendiary's fire,
And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner,
Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner!
Oh Terry, my man, let this speech _never_ die;
Thro' the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly;
Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle uttered
By all Tipperary's wild echoes be muttered.
Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale or flood,
But "_You're aliens in language, in creed and in blood;_"
While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,
Shall answer, like true _Irish_ echoes, "We are!"
And, tho' false be the cry, and the sense must abhor it,
Still the echoes may quote _Law_ authority for it,
And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion
So he, in the end, touches cash "for the _opinion_."
But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now,
Being busy in helping these Lords thro' their __row_.
They're bad hands at mob-work, but once they begin,
They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.
NOTE:
[1] The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.
[The end]
Thomas Moore's poem: Captain Rock In London
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