With _such_ a manager we can't but please,
Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s,[2]
Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle,
Armed with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle;
You, on our side, R. P.[3]upon our banners,
Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners:
And show that, here--howe'er John Bull may doubt--
In all _our_ plays, the Riot-Act's cut out;
And, while we skim the cream of many a jest,
Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.
Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past,
At Shakespeare's altar,[4] shall we breathe our last;
And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods,
Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!
[1] The late Mr. Richard Power.
[2] The brief appellation by which these persons were distinguished who,
at the opening of the new theatre of Convent Garden, clamored for the
continuance of the old prices of admission.
[3] The initials of our manager's name.
[4] This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last
night of the performances.
EXTRACT.
FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE
KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.
* * * * *
Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour,
There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;
And there are tears, too--tears that Memory sheds
Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads,
When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1]
Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest!
There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task,
And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.
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