Viz:-Quacks and Pills-save Ducks and Pease.
Now Mrs. W. was getting sallow,
Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow,
And friends portended was preparing for
A human Pâté Périgord;
She was, indeed, so very far from well,
Her Son, in filial fear, procured a box
Of those said pellets to resist Bile's shocks,
And-tho' upon the ear it strangely knocks—
To save her by a Cockle from a shell!
But Mrs. W., just like Macbeth,
Who very vehemently bids us " throw
Bark to the Bow-wows," hated physic so,
It seemed to share "the bitterness of death:"
Rhubarb-Magnesia-Jalap, and the kind—
Senna-Steel-Assa-foetida, and Squills-
Powder or Draught-but least her throat inclined
To give a course to Boluses or Pills;
No-not to save her life, in lung or lobe,
For all her lights' or all her liver's sake,
Would her convulsive thorax undertake,
Only one little uncelestial globe!
'Tis not to wonder at, in such a case,
If she put by the pill-box in a place
For linen rather than for drugs intended-
Yet for the credit of the pills let's say
After they thus were stowed away,
Some of the linen mended;
But Mrs. W. by disease's dint,
Kept getting still more yellow in her tint,
When lo! her second son, like elder brother,
Marking the hue on the parental gills,
Brought a new charge of Anti-tumeric Pills,
To bleach the jaundiced visage of his Mother-
Who took them-in her cupboard-like the other.
Deeper and deeper, still," of course,
The fatal colour daily grew in force;
Till daughter W. newly come from Rome,
Acting the self-same filial, pillial, part,
To cure Mamma, another dose brought home
Of Cockles;-not the Cockles of her heart!
These going where the others went before, Of course she had a very pretty store; And then-some hue of health her cheek adorning, The Medicine so good must be,
They brought her dose on dose, which she Gave to the up-stairs cupboard, "night and morning."
Till wanting room at last, for other stocks,
Out of the window one fine day she pitched
The pillage of each box, and quite enriched
The feed of Mister Burrell's hens and cocks,-
A little Barber of a by-gone day,
Whose stock in trade, to keep the least of shops, Was one great head of Kemble-that is, John, Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on,
And twenty little Bantam fowls-with crops.
Little Dame W. thought when through the sash She gave the physic wings,
So good for bile, so bad for chicken rash,
For thoughtless cock and unreflecting pullet!
But while they gathered up the nauseous nubbles,
Each pecked itself into a peck of troubles,
And brought the hand of Death upon its gullet.
They might as well have addled been, or ratted,
For long before the night-ah woe betide
The Pills! each suicidal Bantam died
Unfatted!
Think of poor Burrell's shock,
Of Nature's debt to see his hens all payers,
And laid in death as Everlasting Layers,
With Bantam's small Ex-Emperor, the Cock,
In ruffled plumage and funereal hackle,
Giving, undone by Cockle, a last Cackle!
To see as stiff as stone, his un❜live stock,
It really was enough to move his block.
Down on the floor he dashed, with horror big,
Mr. Bell's third wife's mother's coachman's wig;
And with a tragic stare like his own Kemble,
Burst out with natural emphasis enough,
And voice that grief made tremble,
Into that very speech of sad Macduff-
"What!-all my pretty chickens and their dam,
At one fell swoop!-
Just when I'd bought a coop
To see the poor lamented creatures cram!"
After a little of this mood,
And brooding over the departed brood,
With razor he began to ope each craw,
Already turning black, as black as coals;
When lo! the undigested cause he saw-
"Pisoned by goles!"
To Mrs. W.'s luck a contradiction,
Her window still stood open to conviction;
And by short course of circumstantial labour,
He fixed the guilt upon his adverse neighbour;-
Lord! how he railed at her: declaring now,
He'd bring an action ere next Term of Hilary,
Then, in another moment, swore a vow,
He'd make her do pill-penance in the pillory!
She, meanwhile distant from the dinimest dream
Of combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard,
Lapped in a paradise of tea and cream;
When up ran Betty with a dismal scream-
"Here's Mr. Burrell, ma'am, with all his farm-
yard!"
Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending,
With all the warmth that iron and a barber
Can harbour;
To dress the head and front of her offending,
The fuming phial of his wrath uncorking ;
In short, he made her pay him ́altogether,
In hard cash, very hard, for every feather,
Charging of course, each Bantam as a Dorking;
Nothing could move him, nothing make him supple,
So the sad dame unpocketing her loss,
Had nothing left but to sit hands across,
And see her poultry "going down ten couple."
Now birds by poison slain,
As venomed dart from Indian's hollow cane,
Are edible; and Mrs. W.'s thrift,—
She had a thrifty vein,—
Destined one pair for supper to make shift,—
Supper as usual at the hour of ten :
But ten o'clock arrived and quickly passed,
Eleven-twelve-and one o'clock at last,
Without a sign of supper even then!
At length, the speed of cookery to quicken,
Betty was called, and with reluctant feet,
Came up at a white heat-
"Well, never I see chicken like them chicken! My saucepans, they have been a pretty while in
Enough to stew them, if it comes to that,
To flesh and bones, and perfect rags; but drat
Those Anti-biling Pills! there is no bile in 'em!"
"I like to meet a sweep-such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes, sounding like the peep, peep, of a young sparrow."-ESSAYS OF ELIA.
"A voice cried Sweep no more!
Macbeth hath murdered sweep."-SHAKSPEARE.
ONE morning ere my usual time
I rose, about the seventh chime,
When little stunted boys that climb
Still linger in the street;
And as I walked, I saw indeed
A sample of the sooty breed,
Though he was rather run to seed,
In height above five feet.
A mongrel tint he seemed to take;
Poetic simile to make,
DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break,
White overcoming jet.
From side to side he crossed oblique,
Like Frenchman who has friends to seek,
And yet no English word can speak,
He walked upon the fret:
And while he sought the dingy job,
His labouring breast appeared to throb,
And half a hiccup half a sob
Betrayed internal woe.
To cry the cry he had by rote
He yearned, but law forbade the note,
Like Chanticleer, with roupy throat,
He gaped—but not a crow!
I watched him, and the glimpse I snatched
Disclosed his sorry eyelids patched
With red, as if the soot had catched
That hung about the lid;
And soon I saw the tear-drop stray,
He did not care to brush away;
Thought I the cause he will betray—
And thus at last he did.
Well, here's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging!
But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in doing it had plenty of magging.
They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the Deaf and Dumb,
To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regularly mum.
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