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.
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