Epitaph On A Tuft-Hunter.
By Thomas Moore
Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,
For here lies one who ne'er preferred
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 "Duke," 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 damned beside a Duke,
Than saved in vulgar company.