So take the five millions of pills,
Dear partner, I herewith inclose;
'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill,
From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.
And you, ye brave bullets that go,
How I wish that, before you set out,
The _Devil_ of the Freischuetz could know
The good work you are going about.
For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead.
Into such supernatural wit.
That you'd all of you know, as you sped,
Where a bullet of sense _ought_ to hit.
A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.[1]
_regnis_ EX _sul ademptis_.--Verg. 1827.
To Swanage--that neat little town in whose bay
Fair Thetis shows off in her best silver slippers--
Lord Bags[2] took his annual trip t'other day,
To taste the sea breezes and chat with the dippers.
There--learned as he is in conundrums and laws--
Quoth he to his dame (whom he oft plays the wag on),
"Why are chancery suitors like bathers?"--"Because
Their _suits_ are _put off_, till they haven't a rag on."
Thus on he went chatting--but, lo! while he chats,
With a face full of wonder around him he looks;
For he misses his parsons, his dear shovel hats,
Who used to flock round him at Swanage like rooks.
"How is this, Lady Bags?--to this region aquatic
"Last year they came swarming to make me their bow,
"As thick as Burke's cloud o'er the vales of Carnatic,
"Deans, Rectors, D.
Pages:
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139