Jam te juvaverit

Viros relinquere,

DoctÆque conjugis

Sinu quiescere.—Sir T. More.

O why should our dull retrospective Addresses

Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire?

Away with blue devils, away with distresses,

And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!

Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury,

The richest to me is when woman is there:

The question of houses I leave to the jury;

The fairest to me is the house of the fair.

When woman's soft smile all our senses bewilders,

And gilds while it carves her dear form on the heart,

What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders,

With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?

How well would our actors attend to their duties,

Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit,

In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beauties

Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit.

The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge

By woman were pluck'd, and she still wears the prize,

To tempt us in Theatre, Senate, or College;

I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.

There too is the lash which, all statutes controlling,

Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair,

For man is the pupil, who, while her eye's rolling,

Is lifted to rapture or sunk in despair.

Bloom, Theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes

Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile;

And flourish, ye pillars, as green as the rushes

That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle.

For dear is the Emerald Isle of the Ocean,

Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,

Whose sons, unaccustomed to rebel commotion,

Tho' joyous are sober, tho' peaceful are brave.

The shamrock their olive, sworn foe to a quarrel,

Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows;

Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel,

Which flourishes rapidly over their brows.

Oh! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles,

Which each panting bosom indignantly names,

Until not one goose at the capital cackles,

Against the grand question of Catholic claims.

And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffy

Perchance held the helm of some mack'rel hoy,

Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffy

More fishes than ever he caught when a boy.

And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows,

In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock,

When bred to our bar shall be Gibbs's and Garrows,

Assume the silk gown and discard the smock-frock.

For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune,

As Dian outshines each encircling star,

And the spheres of the Heavens could never have kept tune

Till set to the music of Erin-go-bra!