Whose names--think, how quick! he already knows pat,
_A la braise, petits pates_, and--what d' ye call that
They inflict on potatoes?--oh! _maitre d'hotel_--
I assure you, dear DOLLY, he knows them as well
As if nothing else all his life he had eat,
Tho' a bit of them BOBBY has never touched yet;
But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks,
As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.
As to Pa, what d' ye think?--mind, it's all _entre nous_,
But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you--
Why, he's writing a book--what! a tale? a romance?
No, we Gods, would it were!--but his travels in France;
At the special desire (he let out t'other day)
Of his great friend and patron, my Lord CASTLEREAGH,
Who said, "My dear FUDGE"--I forget the exact words,
And, it's strange, no one ever remembers my Lord's;
But 'twas something to say that, as all must allow
A good orthodox work is much wanting just now,
To expound to the world the new--thingummie--science,
Found out by the--what's-its-name--Holy Alliance,
And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly,
Their freedom a joke (which it _is_, you know, DOLLY),
"There's none," said his Lordship, "if _I_ may be judge,
Half so fit for this great undertaking as FUDGE!"
The matter's soon, settled--Pa flies to _the Row_
(The _first_ stage your tourists now usually go),
Settles all for his quarto--advertisements, praises--
Starts post from the door, with his tablets--French phrases--
"SCOTT'S Visit" of course--in short, everything _he_ has
An author can want, except words and ideas:--
And, lo! the first thing, in the spring of the year,
Is PHIL.
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