The Euthanasia Of Van.

A poem by Thomas Moore

"We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out. If it be so why not let us die in peace?"
--LORD BEXLEY'S Letter to the Freeholders of Kent.


Stop, Intellect, in mercy stop,
Ye curst improvements, cease;
And let poor Nick Vansittart drop
Into his grave in peace.

Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun,
Young Freedom, veil thy head;
Let nothing good be thought or done,
Till Nick Vansittart's dead!

Take pity on a dotard's fears,
Who much doth light detest;
And let his last few drivelling years
Be dark as were the rest.

You too, ye fleeting one-pound notes,
Speed not so fast away--
Ye rags on which old Nicky gloats,
A few months longer stay.

Together soon, or much I err,
You both from life may go--
The notes unto the scavenger,
And Nick--to Nick below.

Ye Liberals, whate'er your plan,
Be all reforms suspended;
In compliment to dear old Van,
Let nothing bad be mended.

Ye Papists, whom oppression wrings,
Your cry politely cease,
And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings
That Van may die in peace.

So shall he win a fame sublime
By few old rag-men gained;
Since all shall own, in Nicky's time,
Nor sense nor justice reigned.

So shall his name thro' ages past,
And dolts ungotten yet,
Date from "the days of Nicholas,"
With fond and sad regret;--

And sighing say, "Alas, had he
"Been spared from Pluto's bowers,
"The blessed reign of Bigotry
"And Rags might still be ours!"