The Fudges In England. Letter Iv. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ---- Poem Rhyme Scheme

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He comes from Erin's speechful shore	A
Like fervid kettle bubbling o'er	B
With hot effusions hot and weak	C
Sound Humbug all your hollowest drums	D
He comes of Erin's martyrdoms	D
To Britain's well fed Church to speak	C
	-
Puff him ye Journals of the Lord	E
Twin prosers Watchman and Record	E
Journals reserved for realms of bliss	D
Being much too good to sell in this	D
Prepare ye wealthier Saints your dinners	D
Ye Spinsters spread your tea and crumpets	D
And you ye countless Tracts for Sinners	D
Blow all your little penny trumpets	D
He comes the reverend man to tell	F
To all who still the Church's part take	G
Tales of parsonic woe that well	F
Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache	G
Of ten whole bishops snatched away	H
For ever from the light of day	H
With God knows too how many more	A
For whom that doom is yet in store	A
Of Rectors cruelly compelled	I
From Bath and Cheltenham to haste home	J
Because the tithes by Pat withheld	I
Will not to Bath or Cheltenham come	K
Nor will the flocks consent to pay	H
Their parsons thus to stay away	H
Tho' with such parsons one may doubt	L
If 'tisn't money well laid out	L
Of all in short and each degree	M
Of that once happy Hierarchy	M
Which used to roll in wealth so pleasantly	M
But now alas is doomed to see	M
Its surplus brought to nonplus presently	M
	-
Such are the themes this man of pathos	D
Priest of prose and lord of bathos	D
Will preach and preach t'ye till you're dull again	N
Then hail him Saints with joint acclaim	O
Shout to the stars his tuneful name	O
Which Murtagh was ere known to fame	O
But now is Mortimer O'Mulligan	P
	-
All true Dick true as you're alive	Q
I've seen him some hours since arrive	Q
Murtagh is come the great Itinerant	R
And Tuesday in the market place	D
Intends to every saint and sinner in't	M
To state what he calls Ireland's Case	D
Meaning thereby the case of his shop	S
Of curate vicar rector bishop	T
And all those other grades seraphic	G
That make men's souls their special traffic	G
Tho' caring not a pin which way	H
The erratic souls go so they pay	H
Just as some roguish country nurse	D
Who takes a foundling babe to suckle	U
First pops the payment in her purse	D
Then leaves poor dear to suck its knuckle	U
Even so these reverend rigmaroles	D
Pocket the money starve the souls	D
Murtagh however in his glory	M
Will tell next week a different story	M
Will make out all these men of barter	B
As each a saint a downright martyr	B
Brought to the stake i e a beef one	P
Of all their martyrdoms the chief one	P
Tho' try them even at this they'll bear it	V
If tender and washt down with claret	V
	-
Meanwhile Miss Fudge who loves all lions	D
Your saintly next to great and high 'uns	D
A Viscount be he what he may	H
Would cut a Saint out any day	H
Has just announced a godly rout	V
Where Murtagh's to be first brought out	V
And shown in his tame week day state	V
Prayers half past seven tea at eight	V
Even so the circular missive orders	D
Pink cards with cherubs round the borders	D
	-
Haste Dick you're lost if you lose time	W
Spinsters at forty five grow giddy	V
And Murtagh with his tropes sublime	W
Will surely carry off old Biddy	V
Unless some spark at once propose	D
And distance him by downright prose	D
That sick rich squire whose wealth and lands	D
All pass they say to Biddy's hands	D
The patron Dick of three fat rectories	D
Is dying of angina pectoris	D
So that unless you're stirring soon	X
Murtagh that priest of puff and pelf	Q
May come in for a honey moon	X
And be the man of it himself	Q
	-
As for me Dick 'tis whim 'tis folly	V
But this young niece absorbs me wholly	V
'Tis true the girl's a vile verse maker	B
Would rhyme all nature if you'd let her	B
But even her oddities plague take her	B
But made me love her all the better	B
Too true it is she's bitten sadly	V
With this new rage for rhyming badly	V
Which late hath seized all ranks and classes	D
Down to that new Estate the masses	D
Till one pursuit all tastes combines	D
One common railroad o'er Parnassus	D
Where sliding in those tuneful grooves	D
Called couplets all creation moves	D
And the whole world runs mad in lines	D
Add to all this what's even still worse	D
As rhyme itself tho' still a curse	D
Sounds better to a chinking purse	D
Scarce sixpence hath my charmer got	V
While I can muster just a groat	V
So that computing self and Venus	D
Tenpence would clear the amount between us	D
However things may yet prove better	B
Meantime what awful length of letter	B
And how while heaping thus with gibes	D
The Pegasus of modern scribes	D
My own small hobby of farrago	G
Hath beat the pace at which even they go	G

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter Iv. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ---- Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

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