The Fudges In England. Letter I. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----; Curate Of ----, In Ireland.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Who d' ye think we've got here?--quite reformed from the giddy.
Fantastic young thing that once made such a noise--
Why, the famous Miss Fudge--that delectable Biddy,
Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,
In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs--
Such a thing as no rainbow hath colors to paint;
Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,
And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

Poor "Pa" hath popt off--gone, as charity judges,
To some choice Elysium reserved for the Fudges;
And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations
From some much revered and much palsied relations,
Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,--
Age, thirty, or thereabouts--stature six feet,
And warranted godly--to make all complete.
Nota bene--a Churchman would suit, if he's high,
But Socinians or Catholics need not apply.

What say you, Dick? doesn’t this tempt your ambition?
The whole wealth of Fudge, that renowned man of pith.
All brought to the hammer, for Church competition,--
Sole encumbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken therewith.
Think, my boy, for a Curate how glorious a catch!
While, instead of the thousands of souls you now watch,
To save Biddy Fudge's is all you need do;
And her purse will meanwhile be the saving of you.

You may ask, Dick, how comes it that I, a poor elf,
Wanting substance even more than your spiritual self,
Should thus generously lay my own claims on the shelf,
When, God knows! there ne'er was young gentleman yet
So much lackt an old spinster to rid him from debt,
Or had cogenter reasons than mine to assail her
With tender love-suit--at the suit of his tailor.

But thereby there hangs a soft secret, my friend,
Which thus to your reverend breast I commend:
Miss Fudge hath a niece--such a creature!--with eyes
Like those sparklers that peep out from summer-night skies
At astronomers-royal, and laugh with delight
To see elderly gentlemen spying all night.

While her figure--oh! bring all the gracefullest things
That are borne thro' the light air by feet or by wings,
Not a single new grace to that form could they teach,
Which combines in itself the perfection of each;
While, rapid or slow, as her fairy feet fall,
The mute music of symmetry modulates all.

Ne'er in short was there creature more formed to bewilder
A gay youth like me, who of castles aërial
(And only of such) am, God help me! a builder;
Still peopling each mansion with lodgers ethereal,
And now, to this nymph of the seraph-like eye,
Letting out, as you see, my first floor next the sky.

But, alas! nothing's perfect on earth--even she,
This divine little gipsy, does odd things sometimes;
Talks learning--looks wise (rather painful to see),
Prints already in two County papers her rhymes;
And raves--the sweet, charming, absurd little dear,
About Amulets, Bijous, and Keepsakes, next year.
In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portends
Of that Annual blue fit, so distressing to friends;
A fit which, tho' lasting but one short edition,
Leaves the patient long after in sad inanition.

However, let's hope for the best--and, meanwhile,
Be it mine still to bask in the niece's warm smile;
While you, if you're wise, Dick, will play the gallant
(Uphill work, I confess,) to her Saint of an Aunt.
Think, my boy, for a youngster like you, who've a lack,
Not indeed of rupees, but of all other specie.

What luck thus to find a kind witch at your back,
An old goose with gold eggs, from all debts to release ye!
Never mind, tho' the spinster be reverend and thin,
What are all the Three Graces to her Three per Cents?
While her aeres!--oh Dick, it don’t matter one pin
How she touches the affections, so you touch the rents;
And Love never looks half so pleased as when, bless him, he
Sings to an old lady's purse "Open, Sesame."

By the way, I've just heard, in my walks, a report,
Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport.
'Tis rumored our Manager means to bespeak
The Church tumblers from Exeter Hall for next week;
And certainly ne'er did a queerer or rummer set
Throw, for the amusement of Christians, a summerset.
'Tis feared their chief "Merriman," C--ke, cannot come,
Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home;
And the loss of so practised a wag in divinity
Will grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trinity;--
His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately
Having pleased Robert Taylor, the Reverend, greatly.
'Twill prove a sad drawback, if absent he be,
As a wag Presbyterian's a thing quite to see;
And, 'mong the Five Points of the Calvinists, none of 'em
Ever yet reckoned a point of wit one of 'em.
But even tho' deprived of this comical elf,
We've a host of buffoni in Murtagh himself.
Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and mime,
And Coke takes the Ground Tumbling, he the
Sublime;[1]
And of him we're quite certain, so pray come in time.

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