The Newcastle Apothecary. Apothecary's verse ! And where's the treason? "Tis simply honest dealing :-not a crime ;When patients swallow physic without reason, It is but fair to give a little rhyme. He had a patient lying at death's door, Some three miles from the town,-it might be four; And, on the label of the stuff, He wrote this verse; Which, one would think, was clear enough, "When taken, To be well shaken." Next morning, early, Bolus rose ; And to the patient's house he goes ;— Who a vile trick of stumbling had : Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance; By fiddlers, and by opera-singers: One loud, and then a little one behind; As if the knocker fell, by chance, Out of their fingers. The Newcastle Apothecary. The servant lets him in, with dismal face, Portending some disaster; John's countenance as rueful look'd, and grim, And not his master. Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said. "Indeed!--hum! ha!-that's very odd! He took the draught?" John gave a nod. 66 “Well,—how ?—what then?—speak out, you dunce!" Why then," says John, " we shook him once." "Shook him! How?"-Bolus stammer'd out. "We jolted him about." "Zounds! Shake a patient, man! -a shake won't do." "No, Sir, and so we gave him two.” "Two shakes! od's curse! "Twould make the patient worse." "It did so, Sir!--and so a third we tried." "Well, and what then?"" Then, Sir, my master died.” GROUP of topers at a table sat, With punch that much regales the thirsty soul: Flies soon the party join'd, and join'd the chat, Humming, and pitching round the mantling bowl. At length those flies got drunk, and for their sin, The Toper and the Flies. Wanting to drink-one of the men Dipp'd from the bowl the drunken host, And drank-then taking care that none were lost, He put in ev'ry mother's son agen. Up jump'd the Bacchanalian crew on this, Swearing, and in the attitude to smite : "Lord!” cried the man with gravely-lifted eyes, 66 Though I don't like to swallow flies, I did not know but others might." THE APPLE DUMPLINGS AND A KING. PETER PINDAR. NCE on a time, a Monarch, tired with hooping, A poor, defenceless, harmless buck, The horse and rider wet as muck, From his high consequence and wisdom stooping, Where sat a poor old woman with her pot. The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny, Like lightning spoke, "What's this? what's this? what? what?" |