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Title: Incantation [from The New Tragedy Of "The Brunswickers"]
Author: Thomas Moore [
More Titles by Moore]
SCENE.--_Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.--
Enter three Brunswickers_.
_1st Bruns_.--Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawled,
_2d Bruns_.--Once hath fool Newcastle bawled,
_3d Bruns_.--Bexley snores:--'tis time, 'tis time,
_1st Bruns_.--Round about the caldron go;
In the poisonous nonsense throw.
Bigot spite that long hath grown
Like a toad within a stone,
Sweltering in the heart of Scott,
Boil we in the Brunswick pot.
_All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Eldon, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.
_2d Bruns_.--Slaver from Newcastle's quill
In the noisome mess distil,
Brimming high our Brunswick broth
Both with venom and with froth.
Mix the brains (tho' apt to hash ill,
Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel,
With that malty stuff which Chandos
Drivels as no other man does.
Catch (_i. e._ if catch you can)
One idea, spick and span,
From my Lord of Salisbury,--
One idea, tho' it be
Smaller than the "happy flea"
Which his sire in sonnet terse
Wedded to immortal verse.[1]
Tho' to rob the son is sin,
Put his _one_ idea in;
And, to keep it company,
Let that conjuror Winchelsea
Drop but _half_ another there,
If he hath so much to spare.
Dreams of murders and of arsons,
Hatched in heads of Irish parsons,
Bring from every hole and corner,
Where ferocious priests like Horner
Purely for religious good
Cry aloud for Papist's blood,
Blood for Wells, and such old women,
At their ease to wade and swim in.
_All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.
_3d Bruns_.--Now the charm begin to brew;
Sisters, sisters, add thereto
Scraps of Lethbridge's old speeches,
Mixt with leather from his breeches,
Rinsings of old Bexley's brains,
Thickened (if you'll take the pains)
With that pulp which rags create,
In their middle _nympha_ state,
Ere, like insects frail and sunny,
Forth they wing abroad as money.
There--the Hell-broth we've enchanted--
Now but _one_ thing more is wanted.
Squeeze o'er all that Orange juice,
Castlereagh keeps corkt for use,
Which, to work the better spell, is
Colored deep with blood of ----,
Blood, of powers far more various,
Even than that of Januarius,
Since so great a charm hangs o'er it,
England's parsons bow before it.
_All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.
_2d Bruns_.--Cool it now with ----'s blood,
So the charm is firm and good.
[_exeunt_.]
NOTE:
[1] Alluding to a well-known lyric composition of the late Marquis, which, with a slight alteration, might be addressed either to a flea or a fly.
[The end]
Thomas Moore's poem: Incantation [from The New Tragedy Of "the Brunswickers"]
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