446 TOM MOORE AT BANNOW. 



he called to the Cad to stop. Putting one foot on the ground, ready to 

 start, he hurriedly inquired the way to the Green Man and Still. 



" Green Man and Still ! Lord bless you, sir ; vy, you're not near it. 

 Ve does not come that vay." 



*' Which is the way, then ?" gasped the traveller, his agitation almost 

 choking him. 



" Vy, sir, you must go up there," pointing in the direction ; " and ven 

 you comes to that 'ere corner, you must " 



At this moment the clock of St. Martin's Church struck three, and 

 without stopping to hear the rest of the direction, the terrified Traveller 

 rushed up Cockspur-street, in the vain hope of reaching the coach-office 

 in time. 



TOM MOORE AT BANNOW. 



" ALL the addresses having been read and answered, a young man> 

 named Martin M'Donald Doyle, of the parish of Tintern, was introduced 

 to Mr. Moore by his friend and neighbour, Mr. John M'Brien, as an 

 humble follower in the train of the Pierian Maids. 



Mr. M'Brien said, "Sir, I beg leave, as one of this deputation, to 

 introduce to your attention, an amiable and humble Irish youth, and a 

 scion of promise. It is unnecessary for me here to expatiate on his merits 

 your honourable friend and his kind patron (pointing to Mr. Boyse) 

 who knows how to appreciate them, will speak to you of him as he 

 deserves." 



The modest aspirant to Parnassian laurels then stepped forward, and 

 addressed his immortal prototype, in the following vigorous strain, re- 

 cited with great emphasis and feeling; 



TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. BANNOW. 



Welcome ! thou minstrel of the West, 



While thousands throng to greet, to bless thee ; 

 In feeble strain, among the rest, 



A rustic rhymer dares address thee. 

 Unskilled to pour the polished lay, 



And nurs'd in life's less favour'd ranks, 

 He ventures, in his homely way, 



To welcome thee to " Bannow's Banks." 



When first I sung, 'twas when thy strains 



Their wizard spell around me threw 

 Of tears, and loves, and flowers, and chains, 



I fondly tried to sing like you ; 

 And if 'twas MOORE'S entrancing songs 



That plumed my muse's early wing, 

 To whom if not to MOORE belongs 



The little she has sought to sing ? 



