The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

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 colours to paint;
Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,
And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

296

Poor “Pa” hath popp'd off—gone, as charity judges,
To some choice Elysium reserv'd 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 renown'd 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.

297

You may ask, Dick, how comes it that I, a poor elf,
Wanting substance ev'n 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 lack'd 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 through the light air by feet or by wings,

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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 form'd 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,

299

In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portends
Of that Annual blue fit, so distressing to friends;
A fit which, though 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 acres!—oh Dick, it don't matter one pin
How she touches the' affections, so you touch the rents;
And Love never looks half so pleas'd as when, bless him, he
Sings to an old lady's purse “Open, Sesame.”

300

By the way, I've just heard, in my walks, a report,
Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport.
'Tis rumour'd 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 th' amusement of Christians, a summerset.
'Tis fear'd their chief “Merriman,” C---ke, cannot come,
Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home ;
And the loss of so practis'd a wag in divinity
Will grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trinity;—
His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately
Having pleas'd Robert Taylor, the Reverend, greatly.

'Twill prove a sad drawback, if absent he be,
As a wag Presbyterian's a thing quite to see;

301

And, 'mong the Five Points of the Calvinists, none of 'em
Ever yet reckon'd a point of wit one of 'em.
But ev'n though depriv'd of this comical elf,
We've a host of buffoni in Murtagh himself,
Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and mime,
As C---ke takes the Ground Tumbling, he the Sublime ;
And of him we're quite certain, so, pray, come in time.

That floor which a facetious garreteer called “le premier en descendant du ciel.”

See the Dublin Evening Post, of the 9th of this month (July), for an account of a scene which lately took place at a meeting of the Synod of Ulster, in which the performance of the above-mentioned part by the personage in question appears to have been worthy of all his former reputation in that line.

“All are punsters if they have wit to be so; and therefore when an Irishman has to commence with a Bull, you will naturally pronounce it a bull. (A laugh.) Allow me to bring before you the famous Bull that is called Unigenitus, referring to the only-begotten Son of God.” —Report of the Rev. Doctor's Speech June 20. in the Record Newspaper.

In the language of the play-bills, “Ground and Lofty Tumbling.”