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Though long my list, though great my store,I'd ever seek to add one more.

Old songs! old songs!-my brain has lost
Much that it gain'd with pain and cost:
I have forgotten all the rules

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
Much goodly lore the girl was taught;
But not a word has pass'd away

Of "Rest thee, Babe," or "Robin Gray."

The ballad still is breathing round,
But other voices yield the sound;
Strangers possess the household room;
The mother lieth in the tomb;

And the blithe boy that praised her song,
Sleeping as soundly and as long.

Old songs! old songs!-I should not sigh-
Joys of the earth on earth must die;

But spectral forms will sometimes start
Within the caverns of the heart,
Haunting the lone and darken'd cell
Where, warm in life, they used to dwell.

Hope, youth, love, home-each human tie
That binds, we know not how or why-
All, all that to the soul belongs,
Is closely mingled with "Old Songs!"



The Newcastle Apothecary.

A MAN in many a country town we know,
Professing openly with death to wrestle,
Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe
Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet some affirm, no enemies they are,
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother;
So (many a suff'ring patient saith),

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,"
His name was Bolus.

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,
Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic?
Of poetry, tho' patron-god,
Apollo patronizes physic.

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
In dapper couplets like Gay's fables,

Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.

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;
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:

"When taken,

To be well shaken."

Next morning early, Bolus rose,
And to the patient's house he goes-
Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had :
But that's of course,

For what's expected from a horse
With an apothecary on his back?

Bolus arrived, and gave a doubtful rap;

The servant let him in, with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place-

Portending some disaster:

John's countenance as rueful look'd and grim,
As if th' apothecary had physick'd him,
And not his master.

"Well, how's the patient ?" Bolus said,-
John shook his head:

"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



Count Eberhard.

Two Counts with Franz to dine have come

And when the feast was done,

All push'd the wine and talk'd of home,
And each one praised his own.

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The Margrave talk'd of healthful springs,

Another praised his vines; Bohemia spoke of precious things

In many darksome mines.

Count Everhard sat silent there, "Now, Würtemberg, begin!

There must be something good and fair, Your pleasant country in."

"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,
And waking with a start,

I found my head was resting on
A Würtembergian heart!

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