FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ.,
TO THE REV. RICHARD ----.
------, IRELAND.
Dear Dick--just arrived at my own humble_gîte_,
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.