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Though long my list, though great my store,—
Old songs! old songs!-my brain has lost
Of "Murray's" books and "Trimmer's" schools; Detested figures-how I hate
The mere remembrance of a slate!
How have I cast from woman's thought
Of "Rest thee, Babe," or "Robin Gray."
The ballad still is breathing round,
And the blithe boy that praised her song,
Old songs! old songs!-I should not sigh-
But spectral forms will sometimes start
Hope, youth, love, home-each human tie
The Newcastle Apothecary.
A MAN in many a country town we know,
Yet some affirm, no enemies they are,
Tho' the apothecary fights with death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.
A member of this Esculapian line
Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne,
His fame full six miles round the country ran,
In short, in reputation he was solus:
All the old women call'd him "a fine man,"
Benjamin Bolus, tho' in trade
(Which oftentimes will genius fetter),
Read works of fancy, it is said,
And cultivated the belles-lettres.
And why should this be thought so odd,
Bolus loved verse ;-and took so much delight in't, That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't.
No opportunity he e'er let pass
Of writing the directions on his labels
Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.
Apothecary's verse! and where's the treason?
He had a patient lying at death's door,
Some three miles from the town-it might be four; To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,
In pharmacy that's call'd cathartical;
And on the label of the stuff
He wrote this verse,
Which one would think was clear enough and terse:
To be well shaken."
Next morning early, Bolus rose,
Who a vile trick of stumbling had :
For what's expected from a horse
With an apothecary on his back?
Bolus arrived, and
The servant let him in, with dismal face,
Portending some disaster;
John's countenance as rueful look'd and grim,
"Well, how's the patient ?" Bolus said,—
"Indeed!-hum; ha!-that's very odd. He took the draught!"-John gave a nod. "Well now! 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."
"What! shake a patient, man! a shake won't do." "No, sir; and so we gave him two."
"Two shakes! odds curse!
'Twould make the patient worse!"
"It did so, sir; and so a third we tried." "Well! what then?"-" Then sir, my master
Two Counts with Franz to dine have come
And when the feast was done,
All push'd the wine and talk'd of home,
The Margrave talk'd of healthful springs,
In many darksome mines.
Count Everhard sat silent there,
"In healthful springs and purple wine," Count Everhard replied;
"In costly gems, and gold to shine, I cannot match your pride.
"But you shall hear a simple tale. One night I lost my way, Within a wood along a vale,
And down to sleep I lay."
"And there I dream'd that I was dead, And funeral lamps were shining With solemn lustre round my head, Within a vault reclining.
"And men and women stood beside My cold sepulchral bed;
And shedding many tears they cried, "Count Everhard is dead.'
"A tear upon my face fell down,
I found my head was resting on