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The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore by Thomas Moore et al

Part 33 out of 33

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(For Biddy from this point won't budge)
Your old friend's new address must be
The _Rev. Mortimer O'Fudge_--
The "O" being kept, that all may see
We're _both_ of ancient family.

Such, friend, nor need the fact amaze you,
My public life's a calm Euthanasia.
Thus bid I long farewell to all
The freaks of Exeter's old Hall--
Freaks, in grimace, its apes exceeding,
And rivalling its bears in breeding.
Farewell, the platform filled with preachers--
The prayer given out, as grace, by speechers,
Ere they cut up their fellow-creatures:--
Farewell to dead old Dens's volumes,
And, scarce less dead, old _Standard's_ columns:--
From each and all I now retire,
My task, henceforth, as spouse and sire,
To bring up little filial Fudges,
To be M.P.s, and Peers, and Judges--
_Parsons_ I'd add too, if alas!
There yet were hope the Church could pass
The gulf now oped for hers and her,
Or long survive what _Exeter_--
Both Hall and Bishop, of that name--
Have done to sink her reverend fame.
Adieu, dear friend--you'll oft hear _from_ me,
Now I'm no more a travelling drudge;
Meanwhile I sign (that you may judge
How well the surname will become me)
Yours truly,
MORTIMER O'FUDGE.

[1] "Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at this period
(1649), the price of five pounds was set on the head of a Romish
priest--being exactly the same sum offered by the same legislators for the
head of a wolf."--_Memoirs of Captain Rock_, book i., chap. 10.

[2] In the first edition of his Dictionary, Dr. Johnson very significantly
exemplified the meaning of the word "alias" by the instance of Mallet, the
poet, who had exchanged for this more refined name his original Scotch
patronymic, Malloch. "What _other_ proofs he gave [says Johnson] of
disrespect to his native country, I know not; but it was remarked of him
that he was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend."--_Life of
Mallet_.

LETTER XI.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ.,
TO THE REV. RICHARD ----.
------, IRELAND.

Dear Dick--just arrived at my own humble_gite_,
I enclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete,
Just arrived, _per_ express, of our late noble feat.

[_Extract from the "County Gazette."_]

This place is getting gay and full again.

* * * * *

Last week was married, "in the Lord,"
The Reverend Mortimer O'Mulligan,
Preacher, in _Irish_, of the Word,
He, who the Lord's force lately led on--
(Exeter Hall his _Armagh_-geddon,)[1]
To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place,
One of the chosen, as "heir of grace,"
And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge,
Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge.

Same evening, Miss F. Fudge, 'tis hinted--
Niece of the above, (whose "Sylvan Lyre,"
In our _Gazette_, last week, we printed).
Eloped with Pat. Magan, Esquire.
The fugitives were trackt some time,
After they'd left the Aunt's abode,
By scraps of paper scrawled with rhyme,
Found strewed along the Western road;--
Some of them, _ci-devant_ curlpapers,
Others, half burnt in lighting tapers.
This clew, however, to their flight,
After some miles was seen no more;
And, from inquiries made last night,
We find they've reached the Irish shore.

Every word of it true, Dick--the escape from Aunt's thrall--
Western road--lyric fragments--curl-papers and all.
My sole stipulation, ere linkt at the shrine
(As some balance between Fanny's numbers and mine),
Was that, when we were _one_, she must give up the _Nine_;
Nay, devote to the Gods her whole stock of MS.
With a vow never more against prose to transgress.
This she did, like a heroine;--smack went to bits
The whole produce sublime of her dear little wits--
Sonnets, elegies, epigrams, odes canzonets--
Some twisted up neatly, to form _allumettes_,
Some turned into _papillotes_, worthy to rise
And enwreathe Berenice's bright locks in the skies!
While the rest, honest Larry (who's now in my pay),
Begged, as "lover of _po'thry_," to read on the way.

Having thus of life's _poetry_ dared to dispose,
How we now, Dick, shall manage to get thro' its _prose_,
With such slender materials for _style_, Heaven knows!
But--I'm called off abruptly--_another_ Express!
What the deuce can it mean?--I'm alarmed, I confess.

P.S.

Hurrah, Dick, hurrah, Dick, ten thousand hurrahs!
I'm a happy, rich dog to the end of my days.
There--read the good news--and while glad, for _my_ sake,
That Wealth should thus follow in Love's shining wake,
Admire also the _moral_--that he, the sly elf,
Who has fudged all the world, should be now fudged _himself_!

EXTRACT FROM LETTER ENCLOSED.

With pain the mournful news I write,
Miss Fudge's uncle died last night;
And much to mine and friends' surprise,
By will doth all his wealth devise--
Lands, dwellings--rectories likewise--
To his "beloved grand-niece," Miss Fanny,
Leaving Miss Fudge herself, who many
Long years hath waited--not a penny!
Have notified the same to latter,
And wait instructions in the matter.
For self and partners, etc.

[1] The rectory which the Rev. gentleman holds is situated in the county
of _Armagh_!--a most remarkable coincidence--and well worthy of the
attention of certain expounders of the Apocalypse.

[Illustration: Thomas Moore]

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