Classic Poem

FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD — , ESQ .

O H Dick! you may talk of your writing and reading,
Your Logic and Greek, but there's nothing like feeding;
And this is the place for it, Dicky , you dog,
Of all places on earth — the headquarters of Prog!
Talk of England — her famed Magna Charta , I swear, is
A humbug, a flam, to the Carte at old V ERY'S ;
And as for your Juries — who would not set o'er 'em
A Jury of Tasters, with woodcocks before 'em?
Give C ARTWRIGHT his Parliaments, fresh every year;
But those friends of short Commons would never do here;
And, let R OMILLY speak as he will on the question,
No Digest of Law 's like the laws of digestion!

By the by, D ICK , I fatten — but n'importe for that,
'T is the mode — your Legitimates always get fat.
There's the R EGENTT , there 's Louis — and B ONEY tried too,
But, tho' somewhat imperial in paunch, 't would n't do: —
He improved indeed much in this point when he wed,
But he ne'er grew right royally fat in the head .

D ICK , D ICK , what a place is this Paris! — but stay —
As my raptures may bore you, I 'll just sketch a Day,
As we pass it, myself and some comrades I 've got,
All thorough-bred Gnostics , who know what is what.

After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne,
That Elysium of all that is friand and nice,
Where for hail they have bon-bons , and claret for rain,
And the skaters in winter show off on cream -ice;
Where so ready all nature its cookery yields,
Macaroni au parmesan grows in the fields:
Little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint,
And the geese are all born with a liver complaint!
I rise — put on neck-cloth — stiff, tight, as can be —
For a lad who goes into the world . D ICK . like me,
Should have his neck tied up, you know — there's no doubt of it —
Almost as tight as some lads who go out of it .
With whiskers well oiled, and with boots that " hold up
" The mirror to nature " — so bright you could sup
Off the leather like china; with coat, too, that draws
On the tailor, who suffers, a martyr's applause! —
With head bridled up, like a four-in-hand leader,
And stays — devil 's in them — too tight for a feeder,
I strut to the old Cafe Hardy, which yet
Beats the field at a dejeuner a la fourchette .
There, D ICK , what a breakfast! — oh! not like your ghost
Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast;
But a side-board, you dog, where one's eye roves about,
Like a turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out
One's pâte of larks, just to tune up the throat,
One's small limbs of chickens, done en papillote .
One's erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain,
Or one's kidneys — imagine, D ICK — done with champagne!
Then, some glasses of Beaune , to dilute — or, may hap,
Chambertin , which you know 's the pet tipple of N AP ,
And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler,
Much scruples to taste, but I 'm not so partic'lar. —
Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then D ICK 's
The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix,
(If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on 't,
I 'd swallow e'en Watkins', for sake of the end on 't,)
A neat glass of parfait-amour , which one sips
Just as if bottled velvet tipt over one's lips.
This repast being ended, and paid for — (how odd!
Till a man's used to paying, there 's something so queer in 't!) —
The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad,
And the world enough aired for us Nobs to appear in 't,
We lounge up the boulevards, where — oh! D ICK , the phizzes,
The turn-outs, we meet — what a nation of quizzes!
Here toddles along some old figure of fun,
With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1.,
A laced hat, worsted stockings, and — noble old soul!
A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole;
Just such as our P RINCE , who nor reason nor fun dreads,
Inflicts, without even a court-martial, on hundreds.
Here trips a grisette , with a fond, roguish eye,
(Rather eatable things these grisettes , by the by);
And there an old demoiselle , almost as fond,
In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde.
There goes a French Dandy — ah, D ICK ! unlike some ones
We 've seen about W HITE'S — the Mounseers are but rum ones;
Such hats! — fit for monkies — I'd back Mrs. D RAPER
To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper;
And coats — how I wish, if it would n't distress 'em,
They 'd club for old B RUMMEL , from Calais, to dress 'em!
The collar sticks out from the neck such a space,
That you 'd swear 't was the plan of this head-lopping nation,
To leave there behind them a snug little place
For the head to drop into, on decapitation.
In short, what with mountebanks, counts and friseurs,
Some mummers by trade and the rest amateurs —
What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches,
Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats,
And shoeblacks, reclining by statues in niches,
There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats!

From the Boulevards — but hearken!
— yes — as I'm a sinner,
The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner:
So no more at present — short time for adorning —
My Day must be finisht some other fine morning.
Now, hey for old B EAUVILLIERS'S larder, my boy!
And, once there , if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy
Were to write " Come and kiss me, dear B OB ! " I 'd not budge —
Not a step, D ICK , as sure as my name is
R. F UDGE .