T' other night, at the Countess of ***'s rout,
An amusing event was much whispered about.
It was said that Lord —-, at the Council, that day,
Had, move than once, jumpt from his seat, like a rocket,
And flown to a corner, where—heedless, they say,
How the country's resources were squandered away—
He kept reading some papers he'd brought in his pocket.
Some thought them despatches from Spain or the Turk,
Others swore they brought word we had lost the Mauritius;
But it turned out 'twas only Miss Fudge's new work,
Which his Lordship devoured with such zeal expeditious—
Messrs. Simpkins and Co., to avoid all delay,
Having sent it in sheets, that his Lordship might say,
He had distanced the whole reading world by a day!
[1] A day-coach of that name.
LETTER VIII.
FROM BOB FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN.
Tuesday evening,
I much regret, dear Reverend Sir,
I could not come to * * * to meet you;
But this curst gout wont let me stir—
Even now I but by proxy greet you;
As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is,
Owes all to an amanuensis.
Most other scourges of disease
Reduce men to extremities—
But gout wont leave one even these.
From all my sister writes, I see
That you and I will quite agree.
I'm a plain man who speak the truth,
And trust you'll think me not uncivil,
When I declare that from my youth
I've wisht your country at the devil:
Nor can I doubt indeed from all
I've heard of your high patriot fame—
From every word your lips let fall—
That you most truly wish the same.
It plagues one's life out—thirty years
Have I had dinning in my ears,
"Ireland wants this and that and t'other,"
And to this hour one nothing hears
But the same vile, eternal bother.
While, of those countless things she wanted,
Thank God, but little has been granted,
And even that little, if we're men
And Britons, we'll have back again!
I really think that Catholic question
Was what brought on my indigestion;
And still each year, as Popery's curse
Has gathered round us, I've got worse;
Till even my pint of port a day
Cant keep the Pope and bile away.
And whereas, till the Catholic bill,
I never wanted draught or pill,
The settling of that cursed question
Has quite _un_settled my digestion.
Look what has happened since—the Elect
Of all the bores of every sect,
The chosen triers of men's patience,
From all the Three Denominations.
Let loose upon us;—even Quakers
Turned into speechers and lawmakers,
Who'll move no question, stiff-rumpt elves,
Till first the Spirit moves themselves;
And whose shrill Yeas and Nays, in chorus,
Conquering our Ayes and Noes sonorous,
Will soon to death's own slumber snore us.
Then, too, those Jews!—I really sicken
To think of such abomination;
Fellows, who wont eat ham with chicken,
To legislate for this great nation!—
Depend upon't, when once they've sway,
With rich old Goldsmid at the head o' them,
The Excise laws will be done away,
And Circumcise ones past instead o' them!
In short, dear sir, look where one will,
Things all go on so devilish ill,
That, 'pon my soul, I rather fear
Our reverend Rector may be right,
Who tells me the Millennium's near;
Nay, swears he knows the very year,
And regulates his leases by 't;—
Meaning their terms should end, no doubt,
Before the world's own lease is out.
He thinks too that the whole thing's ended
So much more soon than was intended,
Purely to scourge those men of sin
Who brought the accurst Reform Bill in.