Top 20 Most Popular Poems of Thomas Moore

These are the top twenty (20) most popular poems of Thomas Moore.

From Sir Andrew’s Dream. to A Case Of Libel.

If you want to know his greatest poems of all time, then this poetry collection is for you.

Keep reading!…

Sir Andrew’s Dream.

“nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis:
cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus liubent.”
PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 7.

As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late,
In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate,
Being much too pious, as every one knows,
To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze,
He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man,
And I’ll tell you his dream as well as I can.
He found himself, to his great amaze,
In Charles the First’s high Tory days,
And just at the time that gravest of Courts
Had publisht its Book of Sunday Sports.[1]

Sunday Sports! what a thing for the ear
Of Andrew even in sleep to hear!–
It chanced to be too a Sabbath day
When the people from church were coming away;
And Andrew with horror heard this song.
As the smiling sinners flockt along;–
“Long life to the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!
“For a week of work and a Sunday of play
“Make the poor man’s life run merry away.”

“The Bishops!” quoth Andrew, “Popish, I guess,”
And he grinned with conscious holiness.
But the song went on, and, to brim the cup
Of poor Andy’s grief, the fiddles struck up!

“Come, take out the lasses–let’s have a dance–
“For the Bishops allow us to skip our fill,
“Well knowing that no one’s the more in advance
“On the road to heaven, for standing still.
“Oh! it never was meant that grim grimaces
“Should sour the cream of a creed of love;
“Or that fellows with long, disastrous faces,
“Alone should sit among cherubs above.
“Then hurrah for the Bishops, etc.

“For Sunday fun we never can fail,
“When the Church herself each sport points out;–
“There’s May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale,
“And a May-pole high to dance about.
“Or should we be for a pole hard driven,
“Some lengthy saint of aspect fell,
“With his pockets on earth and his nose in heaven,
“Will do for a May-pole just as well.
“Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!
“A week of work and a Sabbath of play
“Make the poor man’s life run merry away.”

To Andy, who doesn’t much deal in history,
This Sunday scene was a downright mystery;
And God knows where might have ended the joke,
But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke,
And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes)
That since that dream–which, one would suppose,
Should have made his godly stomach rise.
Even more than ever ‘gainst Sunday pies–
He has viewed things quite with different eyes;
Is beginning to take, on matters divine,
Like Charles and his Bishops, the sporting line–
Is all for Christians jigging in pairs,
As an interlude ‘twixt Sunday prayers:–
Nay, talks of getting Archbishop Howley
To bring in a Bill enacting duly
That all good Protestants from this date
May freely and lawfully recreate,
Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody,
With Jack in the Straw or Punch and Judy.

Thomas Moore


A beam of tranquillity smiled in the west,
The storms of the morning pursued us no more;
And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest.
Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o’er.

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,
Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead;
And the spirit becalmed but remembered their power,
As the billow the force of the gale that was fled.

I thought of those days, when to pleasure alone
My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;
When the saddest emotion my bosom had known,
Was pity for those who were wiser than I.

I reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire
The pearl of the soul may be melted away;
How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire
We inherit from heaven, may be quenched in the clay;

And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame,
That Pleasure no more might its purity dim;
So that, sullied but little, or brightly the same,
I might give back the boon I had borrowed from Him.

How blest was the thought! it appeared as if Heaven
Had already an opening to Paradise shown;
As if, passion all chastened and error forgiven,
My heart then began to be purely its own.

I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky
Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more:
“Oh! thus,” I exclaimed, “may a heavenly eye
“Shed light on the soul that was darkened before.”

Thomas Moore

Recent Dialogue.

A Bishop and a bold dragoon,
Both heroes in their way,
Did thus, of late, one afternoon,
Unto each other say:–
“Dear bishop,” quoth the brave huzzar,
“As nobody denies
“That you a wise logician are,
“And I am–otherwise,
“‘Tis fit that in this question, we
“Stick each to his own art–
“That yours should be the sophistry,
“And mine the fighting part.
“My creed, I need not tell you, is
“Like that of Wellington,
“To whom no harlot comes amiss,
“Save her of Babylon;
“And when we’re at a loss for words,
“If laughing reasoners flout us,
“For lack of sense we’ll draw our swords–
“The sole thing sharp about us.”–

“Dear bold dragoon,” the bishop said,
“‘Tis true for war thou art meant;
“And reasoning–bless that dandy head!
“Is not in thy department.
“So leave the argument to me–
“And, when my holy labor
“Hath lit the fires of bigotry,
“Thou’lt poke them with thy sabre.
“From pulpit and from sentrybox,
“We’ll make our joint attacks,
“I at the head of my Cassocks,
“And you, of your Cossacks.
“So here’s your health, my brave huzzar,
“My exquisite old fighter–
“Success to bigotry and war,
“The musket and the mitre!”
Thus prayed the minister of heaven–
While York, just entering then,
Snored out (as if some Clerk had given
His nose the cue) “Amen.”

Thomas Moore

Literary Advertisement.

Wanted–Authors of all-work to job for the season,
No matter which party, so faithful to neither;
Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason.
Can manage, like , to do without either.

If in jail, all the better for out-o’-door topics;
Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat;
They can take a day’s rule for a trip to the Tropics,
And sail round the world at their ease in the Fleet.

For a dramatist too the most useful of schools–
He can study high life in the King’s Bench community;
Aristotle could scarce keep him more within rules,
And of place he at least must adhere to the unity.

Any lady or gentleman, come to an age
To have good “Reminiscences” (three-score or higher)
Will meet with encouragement–so much, per page,
And the spelling and grammar both found by the buyer.

No matter with what their remembrance is stockt,
So they’ll only remember the quantum desired;–
Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, oct.,
Price twenty-four shillings, is all that’s required.

They may treat us, like Kelly, with old jeu-d’esprits,
Like Dibdin, may tell of each farcical frolic;
Or kindly inform us, like Madame Genlis,[1]
That gingerbread-cakes always give them the colic.

Wanted also a new stock of Pamphlets on Corn
By “Farmers” and “Landholders”–(worthies whose lands
Enclosed all in bow-pots their attics adorn,
Or whose share of the soil maybe seen on their hands).

No-Popery Sermons, in ever so dull a vein,
Sure of a market;–should they too who pen ’em
Be renegade Papists, like Murtagh O’Sullivan,[2]
Something extra allowed for the additional venom.

Funds, Physics, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance,
All excellent subjects for turning a penny;–
To write upon all is an author’s sole chance
For attaining, at last, the least knowledge of any.

Nine times out of ten, if his title is good,
The material within of small consequence is;–
Let him only write fine, and, if not understood,
Why–that’s the concern of the reader, not his.

Nota Bene–an Essay, now printing, to show,
That Horace (as clearly as words could express it)
Was for taxing the Fund-holders, ages ago,
When he wrote thus–“Quodcunque in Fund is, assess it.”

Thomas Moore

A Dream.

I thought this heart enkindled lay
On Cupid’s burning shrine:
I thought he stole thy heart away,
And placed it near to mine.

I saw thy heart begin to melt,
Like ice before the sun;
Till both a glow congenial felt,
And mingled into one!

Thomas Moore

A Blue Love Song. To Miss—–.

Air-“Come live with me and be my love.”

Come wed with me and we will write,
My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.
Chased from our classic souls shall be
All thoughts of vulgar progeny;
And thou shalt walk through smiling rows
Of chubby duodecimos,
While I, to match thy products nearly,
Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly.
‘Tis true, even books entail some trouble;
But live productions give one double.

Correcting children is such bother,–
While printers’ devils correct the other.
Just think, my own Malthusian dear,
How much more decent ’tis to hear
From male or female–as it may be–
“How is your book?” than “How’s your baby?”
And whereas physic and wet nurses
Do much exhaust paternal purses,
Our books if rickety may go
And be well dry-nurst in the Row;
And when God wills to take them hence,
Are buried at the Row’s expense.

Besides, (as ’tis well proved by thee,
In thy own Works, vol. 93.)
The march, just now, of population
So much outscrips all moderation,
That even prolific herring-shoals
Keep pace not with our erring souls.[1]
Oh far more proper and well-bred
To stick to writing books instead;
And show the world how two Blue lovers
Can coalesce, like two book-covers,
(Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,)
Lettered at back and stitched together
Fondly as first the binder fixt ’em,
With naught but–literature betwixt ’em.

Thomas Moore

Cupid And Psyche.

They told her that he, to whose vows she had listened
Thro’ night’s fleeting hours, was a spirit unblest;–
Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glistened,
And evil the lips she in darkness had prest.

“When next in thy chamber the bridegroom reclineth,
“Bring near him thy lamp, when in slumber he lies;
“And there, as the light, o’er his dark features shineth,
“Thou’lt see what a demon hath won all thy sighs!”

Too fond to believe them, yet doubting, yet fearing,
When calm lay the sleeper she stole with her light;
And saw–such a vision!–no image, appearing
To bards in their day-dreams, was ever so bright.

A youth, but just passing from childhood’s sweet morning,
While round him still lingered its innocent ray;
Tho’ gleams, from beneath his shut eyelids gave warning
Of summer-noon lightnings that under them lay.

His brow had a grace more than mortal around it,
While, glossy as gold from a fairy-land mine,
His sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crowned it
Seemed fresh from the breeze of some garden divine.

Entranced stood the bride, on that miracle gazing,
What late was but love is idolatry now;
But, ah–in her tremor the fatal lamp raising–
A sparkle flew from it and dropt on his brow.

All’s lost–with a start from his rosy sleep waking;
The Spirit flashed o’er her his glances of fire;
Then, slow from the clasp of her snowy arms breaking,
Thus said, in a voice more of sorrow than ire:

“Farewell–what a dream thy suspicion hath broken!
“Thus ever. Affection’s fond vision is crost;
“Dissolved are her spells when a doubt is but spoken,
“And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost!”

Thomas Moore

A Joke Versified.

“Come, come,” said Tom’s father, “at your time of life,
“There’s no longer excuse for thus playing the rake–
“It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife”–
“Why, so it is, father–whose wife shall I take?”

Thomas Moore

Like Morning, When Her Early Breeze. (Air. Beethoven.)

Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light–

Thy Grace can send its breathings o’er
The Spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touched his sacred lyre.
In silence lay the unbreathing wire;
But when he swept its chords along,
Even Angels stooped to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD,
Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord–
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!

Thomas Moore

To Lady Holland. On Napoleon’s Legacy Op A Snuff-Box.

Gift of the Hero, on his dying day,
To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh;
Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,
This relic lights up on her generous eye,
Sighing, he’d feel how easy ’tis to pay
A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.
Paris, July, 1821

Thomas Moore

A Dream Of Antiquity.

I just had turned the classic page.
And traced that happy period over,
When blest alike were youth and age,
And love inspired the wisest sage,
And wisdom graced the tenderest lover.

Before I laid me down to sleep
Awhile I from the lattice gazed
Upon that still and moonlight deep,
With isles like floating gardens raised,
For Ariel there his sports to keep;
While, gliding ‘twixt their leafy shores
The lone night-fisher plied his oars.

I felt,–so strongly fancy’s power
Came o’er me in that witching hour,–
As if the whole bright scenery there
Were lighted by a Grecian sky,
And I then breathed the blissful air
That late had thrilled to Sappho’s sigh.

Thus, waking, dreamt I,–and when Sleep
Came o’er my sense, the dream went on;
Nor, through her curtain dim and deep,
Hath ever lovelier vision shone.
I thought that, all enrapt, I strayed
Through that serene, luxurious shade,
Where Epicurus taught the Loves
To polish virtue’s native brightness,–
As pearls, we’re told, that fondling doves
Have played with, wear a smoother whiteness.
‘Twas one of those delicious nights
So common in the climes of Greece,
When day withdraws but half its lights,
And all is moonshine, balm, and peace.
And thou wert there, my own beloved,
And by thy side I fondly roved
Through many a temple’s reverend gloom,
And many a bower’s seductive bloom,
Where Beauty learned what Wisdom taught.
And sages sighed and lovers thought;
Where schoolmen conned no maxims stern,
But all was formed to soothe or move,
To make the dullest love to learn,
To make the coldest learn to love.

And now the fairy pathway seemed
To lead us through enchanted ground,
Where all that bard has ever dreamed
Of love or luxury bloomed around.
Oh! ’twas a bright, bewildering scene–
Along the alley’s deepening green
Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers,
And scented and illumed the bowers,
Seemed, as to him, who darkling roves,
Amid the lone Hercynian groves,
Appear those countless birds of light,
That sparkle in the leaves at night,
And from their wings diffuse a ray
Along the traveller’s weary way.

‘Twas light of that mysterious kind.
Through which the soul perchance may roam,
When it has left this world behind,
And gone to seek its heavenly home.
And, Nea, thou wert by my side,
Through all this heavenward path my guide.

But, lo, as wandering thus we ranged
That upward path, the vision changed;
And now, methought, we stole along
Through halls of more voluptuous glory
Than ever lived in Teian song,
Or wantoned in Milesian story.

And nymphs were there, whose very eyes
Seemed softened o’er with breath of sighs;
Whose every ringlet, as it wreathed,
A mute appeal to passion breathed.

Some flew, with amber cups, around,
Pouring the flowery wines of Crete;
And, as they passed with youthful bound,
The onyx shone beneath their feet.
While others, waving arms of snow
Entwined by snakes of burnished gold,
And showing charms, as loth to show,
Through many a thin, Tarentian fold,
Glided among the festal throng
Bearing rich urns of flowers along
Where roses lay, in languor breathing,
And the young beegrape, round them wreathing,
Hung on their blushes warm and meek,
Like curls upon a rosy cheek.

Oh, Nea! why did morning break
The spell that thus divinely bound me?
Why did I wake? how could I wake
With thee my own and heaven around me!

* * * * *

Well–peace to thy heart, though another’s it be,
And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for me!
To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves,
Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves,
And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet
Their allurements forgive and their splendor forget.

Farewell to Bermuda, and long may the bloom
Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume;
May spring to eternity hallow the shade,
Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has strayed.

And thou–when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam
Through the lime-covered alley that leads to thy home,
Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done,
And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun,
I have led thee along, and have told by the way
What my heart all the night had been burning to say–
Oh! think of the past–give a sigh to those times,
And a blessing for me to that alley of limes.

* * * * *

If I were yonder wave, my dear,
And thou the isle it clasps around,
I would not let a foot come near
My land of bliss, my fairy ground.

If I were yonder couch of gold,
And thou the pearl within it placed,
I would not let an eye behold
The sacred gem my arms embraced.

If I were yonder orange-tree,
And thou the blossom blooming there,
I would not yield a breath of thee
To scent the most imploring air.

Oh! bend not o’er the water’s brink,
Give not the wave that odorous sigh,
Nor let its burning mirror drink
The soft reflection of thine eye.

That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,
So pictured in the waters seem,
That I could gladly plunge to seek
Thy image in the glassy stream.

Blest fate! at once my chilly grave
And nuptial bed that stream might be;
I’ll wed thee in its mimic wave.
And die upon the shade of thee.

Behold the leafy mangrove, bending
O’er the waters blue and bright,
Like Nea’s silky lashes, lending
Shadow to her eyes of light.

Oh, my beloved! where’er I turn,
Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes:
In every star thy glances burn;
Thy blush on every floweret lies.

Nor find I in creation aught
Of bright or beautiful or rare,
Sweet to the sense of pure to thought,
But thou art found reflected there.

Thomas Moore

Sail On, Sail On.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark–
Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,
“Tho’ death beneath our smile may be,
Less cold we are, less false than they,
Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee.”
Sail on, sail on,–thro’ endless space–
Thro’ calm–thro’ tempest–stop no more:
The stormiest sea’s a resting place
To him who leaves such hearts on shore.
Or–if some desert land we meet,
Where never yet false-hearted men
Profaned a world, that else were sweet,–
Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon – Ode XXX.

‘Twas in a mocking dream of night–
I fancied I had wings as light
As a young birds, and flew as fleet;
While Love, around whose beauteous feet,
I knew not why, hung chains of lead,
Pursued me, as I trembling fled;
And, strange to say, as swift as thought,
Spite of my pinions, I was caught!
What does the wanton Fancy mean
By such a strange, illusive scene?
I fear she whispers to my breast,
That you, sweet maid, have stolen its rest;
That though my fancy, for a while,
Hath hung on many a woman’s smile,
I soon dissolved each passing vow,
And ne’er was caught by love till now!

Thomas Moore

A Dream Of Turtle.



‘Twas evening time, in the twilight sweet
I sailed along, when–whom should I meet
But a Turtle journeying o’er the sea,
“On the service of his Majesty.”
When spying him first thro’ twilight dim,
I didn’t know what to make of him;
But said to myself, as slow he plied
His fins and rolled from side to side
Conceitedly o’er the watery path–
“‘Tis my Lord of Stowell taking a bath,
“And I hear him now, among the fishes,
“Quoting Vatel and Burgersdicius!”
But, no–’twas, indeed, a Turtle wide
And plump as ever these eyes descried;
A turtle juicy as ever yet
Glued up the lips of a Baronet!
And much did it grieve my soul to see
That an animal of such dignity,
Like an absentee abroad should roam,
When he ought to stay and be ate at home.

But now “a change came o’er my dream,”
Like the magic lantern’s shifting slider;
I lookt and saw by the evening beam
On the back of that Turtle sat a rider–
A goodly man with an eye so merry,
I knew ’twas our Foreign Secretary,
Who there at his ease did sit and smile,
Like Waterton on his crocodile;
Cracking such jokes, at every motion,
As made the Turtle squeak with glee
And own they gave him a lively notion
Of what his forced-meat balls would be.
So, on the Sec. in his glory went.
Over that briny element,
Waving his hand as he took farewell
With graceful air, and bidding me tell
Inquiring friends that the Turtle and he
Were gone on a foreign embassy–
To soften the heart of a Diplomat,
Who is known to dote upon verdant fat,
And to let admiring Europe see,
That calipash and calipee
Are the English forms of Diplomacy.

Thomas Moore

A Reflection At Sea.

See how, beneath the moonbeam’s smile,
Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for awhile,–
Then murmuring subsides to rest.

Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,
Rises on time’s eventful sea:
And, having swelled a moment there,
Thus melts into eternity!

Thomas Moore

A Night Thought.

How oft a cloud, with envious veil,
Obscures yon bashful light,
Which seems so modestly to steal
Along the waste of night!

‘Tis thus the world’s obtrusive wrongs
Obscure with malice keen
Some timid heart, which only longs
To live and die unseen.

Thomas Moore


Che con le lor bugie pajon divini.

I do confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breathed you many a lie;
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?

Nay,–look not thus, with brow reproving;
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving.
If half we tell the girls were true,
If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying’s bright illusion,
This world would be in strange confusion.
If ladies’ eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy must leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies’ eyes.
Oh, no–believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your amber locks to golden wire,
Then, only then can Heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We’ve swearing kist, and kissing sworn.
And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once I’ll tell you truth, my dear.
Whenever you may chance to meet
Some loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you’re false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures,
And while he lies, his heart is yours:
But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth.

Thomas Moore

A Canadian Boat Song.


et remigem cantus hortatur.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl,
But, when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past.

Utawas’ tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past.

Thomas Moore

Love’s Victory.

Sing to Love–for, oh, ’twas he
Who won the glorious day;
Strew the wreaths of victory
Along the conqueror’s way.
Yoke the Muses to his car,
Let them sing each trophy won;
While his mother’s joyous star
Shall light the triumph on.

Hail to Love, to mighty Love,
Let spirits sing around;
While the hill, the dale, and grove,
With “mighty Love” resound;
Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal
Amid the sounds thus echoed o’er,
‘Twill but teach the god to feel
His victories the more.

See his wings, like amethyst
Of sunny Ind their hue;
Bright as when, by Psyche kist,
They trembled thro’ and thro’.
Flowers spring beneath his feet;
Angel forms beside him run;
While unnumbered lips repeat
“Love’s victory is won!”
Hail to Love, to mighty Love,

Thomas Moore

A Case Of Libel.

“The greater the truth, the worse the libel.”

A certain Sprite, who dwells below,
(‘Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,)
Came up incog. some years ago
To try for a change the London air.

So well he lookt and drest and talkt,
And hid his tail and horns so handy,
You’d hardly have known him as he walkt
From C—-e, or any other Dandy.

(His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew;
So he has but to take them out of the socket,
And–just as some fine husbands do–
Conveniently clap them into his pocket.)

In short, he lookt extremely natty,
And even contrived–to his own great wonder–
By dint of sundry scents from Gattie,
To keep the sulphurous hogo under.

And so my gentleman hoofed about,
Unknown to all but a chosen few
At White’s and Crockford’s, where no doubt
He had many post-obits falling due.

Alike a gamester and a wit,
At night he was seen with Crockford’s crew,
At morn with learned dames would sit–
So past his time ‘twixt black and blue.

Some wisht to make him an M. P.,
But, finding Wilks was also one, he
Swore, in a rage, “he’d be damned, if he
“Would ever sit in one house with Johnny.”

At length as secrets travel fast,
And devils, whether he or she,
Are sure to be found out at last,
The affair got wind most rapidly.

The Press, the impartial Press, that snubs
Alike a fiend’s or an angel’s capers–
Miss Paton’s soon as Beelzebub’s,
Fired off a squib in the morning papers:

“We warn good men to keep aloof
“From a grim old Dandy seen about
“With a fire-proof wig and a cloven hoof
“Thro’ a neat-cut Hoby smoking out.”

Now,–the Devil being gentleman,
Who piques himself on well-bred dealings,–
You may guess, when o’er these lines he ran,
How much they hurt and shockt his feelings.

Away he posts to a Man of Law,
And ‘twould make you laugh could you have seen ’em,
As paw shook hand, and hand shook paw,
And ’twas “hail, good fellow, well met,” between ’em.

Straight an indictment was preferred–
And much the Devil enjoyed the jest,
When, asking about the Bench, he heard
That, of all the Judges, his own was Best.

In vain Defendant proffered proof
That Plaintiff’s self was the Father of Evil–
Brought Hoby forth to swear to the hoof
And Stultz to speak to the tail of the Devil.

The Jury (saints, all snug and rich,
And readers of virtuous Sunday papers)
Found for the Plaintiff–on hearing which
The Devil gave one of his loftiest capers.

For oh, ’twas nuts to the Father of Lies
(As this wily fiend is named in the Bible)
To find it settled by laws so wise,
That the greater the truth, the worse the libel!

Thomas Moore

Compared to other poetry collections, Thomas Moore did focus on religious content in most of his poems and was a Catholic patriot. He was also known as Ireland’s National Bard. His poems are extraordinary!

I do like a hopeful poem that is also related to love. That is why Love’s Victory. is my favorite poem in this collection.

What about you? What’s your most favorite poem of Thomas Moore?

Do you still want to add another of his poem to this list? Let me know in the comment section below! 😉


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