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.

Hurrah, Dick, hurrah, Dick, 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!

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 Fanny,

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.

[Illustration: Thomas Moore]