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In short, as I’ve already hinted,
We take of late prodigiously;
But as our Club is somewhat stinted
For Gentlemen, like TOM and me,
We’ll take it kind if you’ll provide
A few Squireens[8] from t’other side;–
Some of those loyal, cunning elves
(We often tell the tale with laughter),
Who used to hide the pikes themselves,
Then hang the fools who found them after.
I doubt not you could find us, too,
Some Orange Parsons that might do:
Among the rest, we’ve heard of one,
The Reverend–something–HAMILTON,
Who stuft a figure of himself
(Delicious thought!) and had it shot at,
To bring some Papists to the shelf,
That couldn’t otherwise be got at–
If he‘ll but join the Association,
We’ll vote him in by acclamation.

And now, my brother, guide and friend,
This somewhat tedious scrawl must end.
I’ve gone into this long detail,
Because I saw your nerves were shaken
With anxious fears lest I should fail
In this new, loyal, course I’ve taken.
But, bless your heart! you need not doubt–
We FUDGES know what we’re about.
Look round and say if you can see
A much more thriving family.
There’s JACK, the Doctor–night and day
Hundreds of patients so besiege him,
You’d swear that all the rich and gay
Fell sick on purpose to oblige him.
And while they think, the precious ninnies,
He’s counting o’er their pulse so steady,
The rogue but counts how many guineas
He’s fobbed for that day’s work already.
I’ll ne’er forget the old maid’s alarm,
When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he
Said, as he dropt her shrivelled arm,
“Damned bad this morning–only thirty!”

Your dowagers, too, every one,
So generous are, when they call him in,
That he might now retire upon
The rheumatisms of three old women.
Then whatsoe’er your ailments are,
He can so learnedly explain ye’em–
Your cold of course is a catarrh,
Your headache is a hemi-cranium:–
His skill too in young ladies’ lungs,
The grace with which, most mild of men,
He begs them to put out their tongues.
Then bids them–put them in again;
In short, there’s nothing now like JACK!–
Take all your doctors great and small,
Of present times and ages back,
Dear Doctor FUDGE is worth them all.

So much for physic–then, in law too,
Counsellor TIM, to thee we bow;
Not one of us gives more eclat to
The immortal name of FUDGE than thou.
Not to expatiate on the art
With which you played the patriot’s part,
Till something good and snug should offer;–
Like one, who, by the way he acts
The enlightening part of candle-snuffer,
The manager’s keen eye attracts,
And is promoted thence by him
To strut in robes, like thee, my TIM!–
Who shall describe thy powers of face,
Thy well-fed zeal in every case,
Or wrong or right–but ten times warmer
(As suits thy calling) in the former–
Thy glorious, lawyer-like delight
In puzzling all that’s clear and right,
Which, tho’ conspicuous in thy youth,
Improves so with a wig and band on,
That all thy pride’s to waylay Truth,
And leave her not a leg to stand on.
Thy patent prime morality,–
Thy cases cited from the Bible–
Thy candor when it falls to thee
To help in trouncing for a libel;–
“God knows, I, from my soul, profess
“To hate all bigots and be-nighters!
“God knows, I love, to even excess,
“The sacred Freedom of the Press,
“My only aim’s to–crush the writers.”
These are the virtues, TIM, that draw
The briefs into thy bag so fast;
And these, oh TIM–if Law be Law–
Will raise thee to the Bench at last.