Wreaths For The Ministers. An Anacreontic.
By Thomas Moore
Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers--
Or, (if sweeter that abode)
From the King's well-odored Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.
Hither come and gayly twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who rule us,
Those who rule and (some say) fool us--
Flora, sure, will love to please
England's Household Deities![1]
First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an orange lily--
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish Gifford can supply;--
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eldon's wig.
Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool,
To crown the head of Liverpool.
'Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs,
Which they suffered (what a pity!)
On the road to Paris City.
Next, our Castlereagh to crown,
Bring me from the County Down,
Withered Shamrocks which have been
Gilded o'er to hide the green--
(Such as Headfort brought away
From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)[2]--
Stitch the garland thro' and thro'
With shabby threads of every hue--
And as, Goddess!--entre nous--
His Lordship loves (tho' best of men)
A little torture now and then,
Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens,
Crimp them with thy curling-irons.
That's enough--away, away--
Had I leisure, I could say
How the oldest rose that grows
Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose--
How the Doctor's[3] brow should smile
Crowned with wreaths of camomile.
But time presses--to thy taste
I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!