|
|
Horace, Ode XXII. Lib. I. Freely Translated By Lord Eldon.
By Thomas Moore
The man who keeps a conscience pure,
(If not his own, at least his Prince's,)
Thro' toil and danger walks secure,
Looks big and black and never winces.
No want has he of sword or dagger,
Cockt hat or ringlets of Geramb;
Tho' Peers may laugh and Papists swagger,
He doesn’t care one single damn.
Whether midst Irish chairmen going.
Or thro' St. Giles's alleys dim,
Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing,
No matter, 'tis all one to him.
For instance, I, one evening late,
Upon a gay vacation sally,
Singing the praise of Church and State,
Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley.
When lo! an Irish Papist darted
Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big--
I did but frown and off he started,
Scared at me even without my wig.
Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog
Goes not to Mass in Dublin City,
Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog,
Nor spouts in Catholic Committee.
Oh! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles,
The ragged royal-blood of Tara;
Or place me where Dick Martin rules
The houseless wilds of Connemara;[1]
Of Church and State I'll warble still,
Though even Dick Martin's self should grumble;
Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill,
So lovingly upon a hill--
Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble![2]
Extra Info:
[1] I must here remark, that the said Dick Martin being a very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a "malus Jupiter" of him.
[2] There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the inseparability of Church and State, and their (what is called) "standing and falling together," than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory.
Jack fell down,
And broke his Crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 353 times.
|
|
