The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

272
LETTERS
FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE AT PARIS TO MISS DOROTHY--IN IRELAND
THOMAS MOORE.
What a time since I wrote!--I'm a sad naughty girl--
Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl,
Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a LETTER to note 'em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,
My gowns, so divine!--there's no language expresses,
Except just the TWO words "superbe," "magmfique,"
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is call'd--I forget--a la--something which sounded
Like alicampane--but, in truth, I'm confounded
And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's:
What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One's hair, and one's cutlets both en papillote,
And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote,
I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,
Between beef a la Psyche and curls a la braise.--
But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite a la Francaise,
With my bonnet--so beautiful!--high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.
Where SHALL I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights--
This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting,
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?
Imprimis, the Opera--mercy, my ears!
Brother Bobby's remark t'other night was a true one
"This MUST be the music," said he, "of the SPEARS,
For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run through one!"
Pa says (and you know, love, his book's to make out),
'T was the Jacobins brought every mischief about;
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
Since the rabble all tried for a VOICE in the State.
What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!
What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it!