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
Upon his pad,

goes;

Who a vile trick of stumbling had
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;
But that's of course:

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

Bolus arriv'd; and gave a doubtful tap;-
Between a single and a double rap.-

Knocks of this kind

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 servant lets 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 saidJohn shook his head.

"Indeed!-hum! ha!-that's very odd! "He took the draught?"-John gave a nod. "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.”

66

"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."

THREE BLACK CROWS.

BYROM.

TWO honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand,
One took the other, briskly, by the hand;
Hark-ye, said he, 'tis an odd story this
About the crows!-I don't know what it is,
Reply'd his friend-No! I'm surpriz'd at that;
Where I come from it is the common chat:
But you
shall hear; an odd affair indeed!
And that it happen'd, they are all agreed.
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change,
This week, in short, as all the alley knows,
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows.
Impossible!-Nay, but 'tis really true;

I have it from good hands, and so may you—

From whose, I pray?-So having nam'd the man,
Straight to enquire his curious comrade ran,
Sir, did you tell-relating the affair

Yes, Sir, I did; and if 'tis worth your care,
Ask Mr. such-a-one, he told it me,

But, by the bye, 'twas two black crows, not three.

Resolv'd to trace so wondrous an event,
Whip to the third the virtuoso went.
Sir-and so forth-Why yes; the thing is fact,
Tho', in regard to number, not exact;
It was not two black crows, 'twas only one,
The truth of that you may depend upon;
The gentleman himself told me the case-
Where may I find him?-Why, in such a place.

Away goes he, and having found him out,
Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt-
Then to his last informant he referr'd,
And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard:
Did you, Sir, throw up a black crow ?-Not I-
Bless me! how people propagate a lie!

Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and ones
And here I find all comes at last to none!

Did you say nothing of a crow at all?
Crow-crow-perhaps I might; now I recall
The matter over. And, pray, Sir, what was't?.
Why I was horrid sick, and, at the last,
I did throw up, and told my neighbour so,
Something that was-as black, Sir, as a crow.

THE YOUNG FLY AND THE OLD SPIDER.

PINDAR.

FRESH was the breath of morn-the busy breeze. As poets tell us, whisper'd through the trees,

And swept the dew-clad blooms with wings so light;
Phoebus got up, and made a blazing fire,
That gilded every country house and spire,
And, smiling, put on his best looks so bright.

On this fair morn, a Spider who had set,
To catch a breakfast, his old waving net,
With curious art, upon a spangled thorn :
At length, with gravely-squinting, longing eye,
Near him espied a pretty, plump, young fly,
Humming her little orisons to morn.

"Good morrow, dear Miss Fly," quoth gallant Grim

"Good morrow, Sir," reply'd Miss Fly to him— "Walk in, Miss, pray, and see what I'm about:" "I'm much oblig'd t'ye, Sir," Miss Fly rejoin'd, "My eyes are both so very good, I find,

"That I can plainly see the whole without."

"Fine weather, Miss"-" Yes very fine," Quoth Miss-" prodigious fine indeed!”

"But why so coy?" quoth Grim," that you decline "To put within my bow'r

"Tis simply this,"

your pretty head?"

Quoth cautious Miss,

"I fear you'd like my pretty head so well,

"You'd keep it for yourself, Sir,-who can tell?”

"Then let me squeeze your lovely hand, my dear, "And prove that all your dread is foolish, vain"

"I've a sore finger, Sir; nay more, I fear "You really would not let it go again.”

"Poh, poh, child, pray dismiss your idle dread; "I would not hurt a hair of that sweet head

"Well, then, with one sweet kiss of friendship "meet me:"

"La, Sir," quoth Miss, with seeming artless tongue, "I fear our salutation would be long:

"So loving, too, I fear that you would eat me.”

So saying, with a smile she left the rogue,
To weave more lines of death, and plan for prog.

THE WATER-FIENDS.

COLMAN.

ON a wild Moor, all brown and bleak,
Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,
There stood a tenement antique;

Lord Hoppergollop's country house.

Here silence reign'd, with lips of glue,
And undisturb'd maintain'd her law;
Save when the owl cry'd " whoo! whoo! whoo!"
Or the hoarse crow croak'd "caw! caw! caw!"

Neglected mansion!-for, 'tis said,

Whene'er the snow came feathering down,
Four barbed steeds,-from the Bull's head,
Carried thy master up to town.

Weep, Hoppergollop!-Lords may moan,
Who stake, in London, their estate,
On two, small, rattling, bits of bone;
On little figure, or on great.

Swift whirl the wheels.-He's gone.-A rose
Remains behind, whose virgin look,

Unseen, must blush in wintry snows,

Sweet, beauteous blossom!.

'twas the cook!