by S.M.
Originally published in The Metropolitan (James Cochrane) vol.1 #3 (Jul 1831).
Of old Olympus' court grown weary,
Of dowdy gods, and dow'ger goddesses,
Where all is grand, and cold and dreary,
High airs, big wigs, and tight-laced boddices—
It chanced, the Graces on a day
Resolved a lark on earth they'd try,
And just for fun, once in a way,
To cut their own eternal sky.
But where to bend their brilliant flight,
Took half a century debating;
Till, on their doubts to throw some light,
They call'd their aid-de-camp in waiting.
Momus, the merriest god in heaven,
If not the sagest, said in sport,
"Were I from high Olympus driven,
By Jove I'd seek the Irish court—
For there, I'm told, with high urbanity,
Supreme bon-ton, and state in plenty,
There's still so much of sweet humanity,
I'd choose that court,—aye, out of twenty."
"But how present ourselves? dear Momus,—
A court is still a court I trow;
And though as free as that of Comus,
We must go labell'd there, you know."
"Labell'd!—I like that; show your faces;
They'll prove a passe par tout I'm sure;
Besides, 'tis known against the Graces
Lestrange[1] will never shut the door."
"Still we must have a name 'tis clear."
"Oh! for a name,—why take at once
That name which Erin holds most dear,—
Say you're the Pagets for the nonce."
Away they flew,—the god had reason,
The goddesses a grand succis;
Pass'd as the Pagets for a season,
And back to heaven rewing'd their way.
1. The chamberlain of the Irish court.