The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 269

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 sc.r.a.ps 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 sh.o.r.e.

Every word of it true, d.i.c.k--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 f.a.n.n.y's numbers and mine), Was that, when we were _one_, she must give up the _Nine_; Nay, devote to the G.o.ds 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, d.i.c.k, 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, d.i.c.k, hurrah, d.i.c.k, 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Thomas Moore]