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Moore: Tuft Hunter
EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER
Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,
For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd
A Viscount to a Marquis yet.
Beside him place the God of Wit,
Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,
Apollo for a star he'd quit,
And Love's own sister for an Earl's.
Did niggard fate no peers afford,
He took, of course, to peers' relations;
And, rather than not sport a Lord,
Put up with even the last creations.
Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em
With 'Lord' and 'Dujte', were sweet to call;
And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum
Was better than no Lord at all.
Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
For, rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke,
Than sav'd in vulgar company.
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?'
103
THOMAS MOORE