Thomas Moore (थॉमस मूर)

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me.

In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more.

I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind,Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes,And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes.

Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear,One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.

My banks are all furnished with rags,So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em.

I've torn up my old money-bags,Having little or nought to put in 'em.

My tradesman are smashing by dozens,But this is all nothing, they say.

For bankrupts, since Adam, are cousins,So, it's all in the family way.

My Debt not a penny takes from me,As sages the matter explain; --.

Bob owes it to Tom and then Tommy,Just owes it to Bob back again.

Since all have thus taken to owing,There's nobody left that can pay.

And this is the way to keep going, --,All quite in the family way.

My senators vote away millions,To put in Prosperity's budget.

And though it were billions or trillions,The generous rogues wouldn't grudge it.

'Tis all but a family hop,'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay.

Hands round! -- why the deuce should we stop?,'Tis all in the family way.

My labourers used to eat mutton,As any great man of the State does.

And now the poor devils are put on,Small rations of tea and potatoes.

But cheer up John, Sawney and Paddy,The King is your father, they say.

So ev'n if you starve for your Daddy,'Tis all in the family way.

My rich manufacturers tumble,My poor ones have nothing to chew.

And, even if themselves do not grumble,Their stomachs undoubtedly do.

But coolly to fast en famille,Is as good for the soul as to pray.

And famine itself is genteel,When one starves in a family way.

I have found out a secret for Freddy,A secret for next Budget day.

Though, perhaps he may know it already,As he, too, 's a sage in his way.

When next for the Treasury scene he,Announces "the Devil to pay".

Let him write on the bills, "Nota bene,'Tis all in the family way.".

The Ghost of Miltiades came at night,And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite.

And he said, in a voice, that thrill'd the frame,"If ever the sound of Marathon's name.

Hath fir'd they blood or flush'd thy brow,Lover of Liberty, rise thee now!".

The Benthamite, yawning, left his bed --,Away to the Stock Exchange he sped.

And he found the Scrip of Greece so high,That it fir'd his blood, it flush'd his eye.

And oh, 'twas a sight to see,For never was Greek more Greek than he!.

And still as the premium higher went,His ecstas rose - so much per cent.

(As we see in a glass, that tells the weather,The heat and the silver rise together,).

And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip,While a voice from pocket whisper'd "Scrip!".

The Ghost of Miltiades came again; --,He smil'd as the pale moon smiles through rain.

For his soul was glad at the patriot strain,(And poor, dear ghost -- how little he knew.

The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!),"Blessings and thanks!" was all he said.

Then, melting away, like a night-dream, fled!,The Benthamite hears -- amaz'd that ghosts.

Could be such fools -- and away he posts,A patriot still? Ah no, ah no --.

Goddess of Freedom, thy scrip is low,And, warm and fond as they lovers are.

Thou triest their passion, when under par,The Benthamite's ardour fast decays.

By turns he weeps, and swears, and prays,And wishes the d--l had Crescent and Cross.

Ere he had been forc'd to sell at a loss,They quote thim the Stock of various nations.

But, spite of his classical associations,Lord how he loathes the Greek quotations!.

"Who'll buy my Scrip! Who'll buy my Scrip?",Is now the theme of the patriot's lip.

And he runs to tell how hard his lot is,To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis.

And says, "Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake,Do buy my Scrip and I vow to break.

Those dark, unholy bonds of thine --,If you'll only consent to buy up mine!".

The Ghost of Miltiades came once more; --,His brow, like the night, was lowering o'er.

And he said, with a look that flash'd dismay,"Of Liberty's foes the worst are they.

Who turn to a trade her cause divine,And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine!".

Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight,Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite.

Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry --,And vanish'd away to the Stygian ferry!.

Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose.

While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter,Tell's to the night-star her tale of woes.

When shall the swan, her death-note singing,Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd?.

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,Call my spirit from this stormy world?.

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,Fate bids me languish long ages away.

Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.

When will that day-star, mildly springing,Warm our isle with peace and love?.

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,Call my spirit to the fields above?.

The time I've lost in wooing,In watching and pursuing.

The light that lies,In woman's eyes.

Has been my heart's undoing,Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me.

I scorn'd the lore she brought me,My only books.

Were women's looks,And folly's all they taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,I hung with gaze enchanted.

Like him the Sprite,Whom maids by night.

Oft meet in glen that's haunted,Like him, too, Beauty won me.

But when the spell was on me,If once their ray.

Was turn'd away,O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?,And is my proud heart growing.

Too cold or wise,For brillant eyes.

Again to set it glowing?,No -- vain, alas! th' endeavour.

From bonds so sweet to sever: --,Poor Wisdom's chance.

Against a glance,Is now as weak as ever.

The young May moon is beaming, love,The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love.

How sweet to rove,Through Morna's grove.

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!,Then awake! -- the heavens look bright, my dear.

'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,And the best of all ways.

To lengthen our days,Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!.

Now all the world is sleeping, love,But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love.

And I, whose star,More glorious far.

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love,Then awake! -- till rise of sun, my dear.

The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,Or, in watching the flight.

Of bodies of light,He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,And as free from a pang as they seem to you now.

Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night,Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow.

No: -- life is a waste of wearisome hours,Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns.

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.

But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile --,May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here.

Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows,If it were not with friendship and love intertwined.

And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,When these blessing shall cease to be dear to my mind.

But they who have loved the fondest, the purest,Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed.

And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest,Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived.