The great Christopher North (Professor Wilson) had but a poor opinion of Thomas Moore, and in Noctes Ambrosiana (Blackwood's Magazine July 1823) he thus expressed himself;

"MOORE will not live long as a song writer, he has not the stamina in him at all. His verses are elegant, pretty, glittering, anything you please in that line; but they have defects which will not allow them to get down to posterity His strong party views, his affectation of learning, his parade of his knowledge of botany, zoology, and the other 'ologies, these are serious defects, and then the mixed metaphors, and often down-right nonsense to be found in his songs, all detract from his chances of immortality." "Here" says Wilson "is a song he intended to be sung by :

:

A FALLEN ANGEL OVER A BOWL OF RUM-PUNCH.

Heap on more coal there,

And keep the glass moving,

The frost nips my nose,

Though my heart glows with loving. Here's the dear creature,

No skylights-a bumper;

He who leaves heel taps
I vote him a mumper.

With hey cow rumble O,
Whack! populorum,
Merrily, merry men,

Push round the jorum.

What are Heaven's pleasures
That so very sweet are?
Singing from psalters,

In long or short metre.
Planked on a wet cloud
Without any breeches,
Just like the Celtic,
Met to make speeches.

With hey cow rumble &c.

Wide is the difference,
My own boozing bullies,
Here the round punch-bowl,
Heap'd to the full is.
Then if some wise one
Thinks that up "yonder "
Is pleasant as we are,
Why-he's in a blunder.

With hey cow rumble, &c.

LOVE AND THE FLIMSIES.

LITTLE Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,
Above a green vale where a paper mill played;
And he hovered in ether, delightedly noting

The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.

The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,

Round the Miller's veranda that clustered and twined;
And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,
This spot of the earth would be most to his mind.

And forth came the Miller, a Quaker in verity,
Rigid of limb and complacent of face,

And behind him a Scotchman was singing "Prosperity,"
And picking his pocket with infinite grace.

And "Walth and prosparity," "Walth and prosparity," His bonny scotch burthen arose on the air,

Is a song all in praise of that primitive charity,

Which begins with sweet home, and which terminates there.

But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,

And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone. And ere the scared miller could call for assistance, The mill to a million of atoms was blown.

Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,

When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where ; And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle, Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air.

Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter,
Pursuing the fragments that floated on high,
As light as the fly that is christened from butter,
Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky.

"Oh, mother," he cried, as he showed them to Venus,
What are these little talismans cyphered-One-One?
If you think them worth having, we'll share them between us,
Though their smell is like, none of the newest, poor John!"
"My darling," says Venus, " away from you throw them,
They're a sort of fool's gold among mortals 'tis true;
But we want them not here, though I think you might know
them,

Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you." THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.

(From Paper Money Lyrics, written during the commercial panic, in the winter 1825-26.)

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Another imitation of Moore's style is given in The Book of Ballads, edited by Bon Gaultier, and published by William Blackwood & Sons. These Ballads were written by Professor W. E. Aytoun, and Theodore Martin. A few of them may be considered amusing as parodies, but the greater number are really clever imitations of style, with a little burlesque introduced here and there. Thus, the following would pass very well for one of Mcore's lighter songs:

THE BARD OF ERIN'S LAMENT.

OH! weep for the hours when the little blind boy
Wove around me the spells of his Paphian bower;
When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy,

And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour!
From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind;

Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the rose; And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, Was forsook for another ere evening's close.

*

But weep for the hour! Life's summer is past,

And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; And my soul as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, Can not turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. No, its ashes are dead—and, alas! Love or Song No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, And a seat by the fire tête-à-tête with a friend.

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OLD SHERRY.

(A Parody on the Anacreontic Song.)

TO OLD Sheridan once as he sat in full glee,

A few duns for hard money sent a petition;
And prayed that his cash or bank notes they might see,
But this answer received from the sturdy old Grecian :-
"My friends, I declare

I have no cash to spare,

66

And, for all your distresses one damn I dont care,
But then I'll instruct you like me how to dine,
And make creditors pay for the banquet and wine."
By this answer appalled, at the statesman they stared,
And then fell to bowing, beseeching, and coaxing,
But their time and their talking they well might have spared,
For old Sherry's grand forte was cajoling and hoaxing.
'My good friends," says he,
"The thing cannot be,
For my purse can't produce to you one mar'vedie ;
But if to discount some more bills you incline,
You all shall partake of my banquet and wine."
The duns with amazement on each other gazed,
Then threatened attornies, arrests, executions,
But old Sheridan smiled, and was mightily pleased
At their impotent threats, and their vain resolutions.
"Goods and chattels," says he,
"You can't get from me,
And from all your arrests, I'm by privilege free;
Disappointed and vex'd, let my creditors whine,
I'll still make them pay for my banquets and wine.
"Dame Justice, that hobbling old Beldam I've found,
With brisk Generosity ne'er can keep pacing;
All my debts I would pay if the cash could be found,
But my wants my finances are always outracing.
Then submit with good grace,
For while I'm out of place
All payment of debt is quite out of the case;

But if once I get in, 'tis my serious design,
That the nation shall pay for my banquet and wine."
The duns one and all from his presence withdrew,
In sullen despair of e'er touching the rhino.
And they'd never come there if old Sherry they knew
But one half so truly as you or I know.

In passing this quiz, So flushed was his phiz, That the nose of old Bardolph were ice matched to his ; He returned to his friends, who'd just helped him to dine, And laughed at the dupes who found banquet and wine. From The Spirit of the Age Newspaper for 1828.

The Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan here referred to, the celebrated wit, orator, and dramatist,

was continually in debt, and as, in addition to being thriftless and extravagant, he was intemperate, his once handsome features became, in the later years of his life, so bloated, distorted, and discoloured, that he seemed but a hideous caricature of his former selt.

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THE SHY BO-PEEP.

(A sea-side fact.)

THE shy Bo-Peep to the sea is gone,
In a bathing frock you'll find her;
A swimming belt she has girded on,

And a life buoy slung behind her. "Bathe, I wont !" said this maiden shy, "Tho' disappointment rankles, "In such a garb some man might spy My pettitoes and ankles !'

Her friends protest, but the task is vain

To make Bo-peep knock under,

The frock was never worn again,
For she tore its seams asunder;
And said, "No more embarrass me
"Thou cumbersome monstrosity!
"I'll bathe' au naturel' and free
In despite of curiosity!"

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A. H.S.

ANACREON'S ODE XXI.
OBSERVE when mother earth is dry,
She drinks the droppings of the sky;
And then the dewy cordial gives
To every thirsty plant that lives.
The vapours, which at evening weep,
Are beverage to the swelling deep;
And when the rosy sun appears,
He drinks the ocean's misty tears.
The moon too quaffs her paly stream
Of lustre from the solar beam.

Then, hence with all your sober thinking
Since Nature's holy law is drinking;
I'll make the laws of Nature mine,
And pledge the universe in wine.

T. MOORE.

Moore has been often accused of plagiarism, and more often perhaps in connection with the above translation from Anacreon than any other poem. A few examples of the versions of earlier writers will show how far the charge can be substantiated.

Pierre de Ronsard (who died in 1585) wrote a version, which, given in the old orthography, runs thus:

"LA terre, les eaux va boivant.
L'arbre la boit par sa racine.
La mer salée boit le vent,

Et le soleil boit la marine.

Le soleil est beu de la lune,

Tout boit soit en haut ou en bas.

Suivant ceste règle commune

Pourquoy donc ne boirons nous pas ?"

Capilupus imitated the ode, in an epitaph on

a drunkard, which has thus been rendered ;

WHILE life was mine, the little hour
In drinking still unvaried flew ;

I drank as earth imbibes the shower,
Or as the rainbow drinks the dew;
As ocean quaffs the rivers up,

Or flushing sun inhales the sea:
Silenus trembled at my cup,

And Bacchus was outdone by me!

In scene 3, act iv., of Timon of Athens, Shakespeare has a similar passage;

"I'LL example you with thievery.

The sun's a thief, and with his great attraction
Robs the vast sea; the moon's an arrant thief,
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun;
The sea's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves
The moon into salt tears.

Another version :

THE heavens carouse each day a cup,
No wonder Atlas holds them up!
The trees suck up the earth and ground,
And in their brown bowls drink around;
The sea, too, whom the salt makes dry,
His greedy thirst to satisfy,
Ten thousand rivers drink, and then
Gets drunk, and brings them up again.

The sun, and who as right as he?
Sits up all night to drink the sea;
The moon quaffs up the sun, her brother,
And wishes she could tope another;
If all things fuddle; why should I,
Of all things, be the one that's dry?
Well, I'll be content to thirst,

But too much drink shall make me first.
LORD ROCHESTER (Died 1680).

THE THIRSTY EARTH.
(Freely translated from Anacreon.)
ABRAHAM COWLEY (Died 1667.)
THE thirsty earth drinks up the rain
And thirsts, and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.

The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, 'and when he's done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun,

They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night :
Nothing in nature's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.

Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses here; for why
Should every creature drink but I?

Why, man of morals, tell me why?

Whilst referring to Thomas Moore's plagiarisms mention must be made of an article. on the subject contained in Fraser's Magazine,

June 1841. It is too long to quote in full, but some of its principal statements may be given:

"Moore's plagiarisms are intolerable. There is not a single original thought, conception, metaphor, or image, in the whole range of his works,-from the Posthumous Poems of Tom Little to his last dying speech-the Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of a Religion. Even the title of this nonsense is stolen from Erasmus's Peregrinatio Religionis ergo. The man is an indefatigable thief. He has laid under contribution every imaginable book, from the biography of his namesake, Tom Thumb, to the portly folios of the fathers of the church. Perfectly unscrupulous in his marauding expeditions, and impartial in his attacks, he is found at one moment rifling a saint, and in the next pillaging a sinner. You have asked me for some specimens of his plagiarisms. You shall have them. Time will permit me to expose only a very few, so I shall plunge at once in medias

LITTLE'S POEMS.

"Here is one leaf reserved for me
From all thy sweet memorials free,
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus within thy mind
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet has been,
Oh, it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there.”

These are stolen from some lines of Pope's :-
"With what strange raptures would my soul be blest,
Were but her book an emblem of her breast,
As I from that all former marks efface,
And, uncontroll'd, put new ones in their place,
So might I chase all others from her heart,
And my own image in the stead impart ;
But ah! how short the bliss would prove if he
Who seized it next might do the same by me

LITTLE'S POEMS.

"Oh, shall we not say thou art Love's duodecimo; Few can be prettier, none can be less, you know,

"Sweet Vale of Avoca, how calm could I rest

In the bosom of shade with the friends I love best;
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace."
This simile of friendly hearts blending together like waters
is as old as

Sir John Suckling. Aglaura, act iv.
"Alas! we two

Have mingled souls more than two meeting brooks."
Dryden. All for Love, act iii., sc. 3.
"We were so closed within each other's breasts,
The rivets were not found that join'd us first,

"Thou motion'st well, nor have I taken leave. It keeps a sweetness yet, [Kisses her]. As stills from roses when the flowers are gone. Philip Massinger. Roman Actor, act iv. sc. 2. "But that thou, whom oft I've seen To personate a gentleman, noble, wise, Faithful and gainsome, and what virtues else The poet pleases to adorn you with;

But that (as vessels still partake the odour

Of the sweet precious liquors they contain'd)
Thou must be really in some degree

The thing thou dost present.'

66

MOORE'S MELODIES.

'I flew to her chamber, 'twas lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead;
Ah, would it were death and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss;

While the hand that had waked it so often,
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.'

Thomas Heywood. A Woman Killed with Kindness.
Grief of Frankford after discovering his wife's infidelity.
"Nic. Master, here's her lute flung in a corner!
Frank. Her lute! Oh, God! upon this instrument
Her fingers have ran quick division,

Swifter than that which now divides our hearts.
Oh, Master Cranwell!

*

Oft hath she made this melancholy wood
(Now mute and dumb, for her disastrous change)
Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain,
To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung,
What pleasant, strange airs, have they jointly rung!"

These are specimens of Moore's rogueries; and now having heard them, will you not agree with me in the propriety of addressing him with. the same compliment which Homer pays to Mercury

"Immortal honour awaits thee, oh, Thomas Little! for thou shalt be known to all posterity as the chief of thieves."