THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.-ANON.

A MAN in many a country town we know,
Professing openly with death to wrestle;
Entering the field against the foe,

Arm'd with a mortar and à pestle.
Yet some affirm no enemies they are,
But meet just like prize-fighters at 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 suffering patient saith)

Though the apothecary fights with death,

Still they're sworn friends with one another.

A member of this Esculapian racc

Liv'd in Newcastle-upon-Tyne;

No man could better gild a pill,
Or make a bill,

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head.
Or chatter scandal by your bed,

Or tell a twister.

Of occupations these were quantum suff. Yet still he thought the list not long enough, And therefore surgery he chose to pin to 't— This balanced things; for if he hurl'd

A few score mortals from the world,

He made amends by keeping others in it,
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 flatter

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 to cure a phthisic?
Of poetry, though patron god,

Apollo patronizes physic.

Bolus lov'd verse, and took so much delight in 't,
That his prescriptions he resolv'd 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 fourTo whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article

In pharmacy, that 's called cathartical;

And on the label of the stuff,

He wrote verse,

Which, one would think, was clear enougn

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.
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack,
But that's of course-

For what's expected of a horse

With an apothecary upon his back?
Bolus arriv'd, and gave a loudish 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 the apothecary had physicked him,
And not his master.

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

"Indeed!-hum !-ba!-that's very odd!
He took the draught ?" John gave a nod
16 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."

"What! shake a patient, man!-—a shake won't do." "No, sir-and so we gave him two.'

"Two shakes! Foul nurse,

'Twould make the patient worse!"

"It did so, sir-and so a third we tried."

"Well, and what then?"" Then, sir, my master died !"

This visit, Mrs. Skinner;

I have not seen you such an age

(The wretch has come to dinner!)

Your daughters, too-what loves of girls!—

What heads for painters' easels!

Come here, and kiss the infant, dears-
(And give it, p'rhaps, the measles!)

Your charming boys, I see, are home,
From Reverend Mr. Russell's;
'Twas very kind to bring them both-
(What boots for my new Brussels!)
What little Clara left at home?

Well, now, I call that shabby!

I should have lov'd to kiss her so-
(A flabby, dabby babby!)

And Mr. S., I hope he's well-
But, though he lives so handy,
He never once drops in to sup―
(The better for our brandy!)
Come, take a seat-I long to hear
About Matilda's marriage;

You've come, of course, to spend the day-
(Thank Heaven! I hear the carriage!)

What! must you go?-next time, I hope,
You'll give me longer measure.
Nay, I shall see you down the stairs-
(With most uncommon pleasure!)
Good bye! good bye! Remember, all,
Next time you 'll take your dinners-
(Now, David, mind-I'm not at home,
In future, to the Skinners.)

.

YANKEE EATING.-HALIBURTON.

DID you ever heer tell of Abernethy, a British doctor! said the clockmaker. Frequently, said I, he was an eminent man, and had a most extensive practice. Well, I reckon he was a vulgar critter that, he replied, he treated the hon'ble Alden Gobble, secretary to our legation at London, dreadful bad once; and I guess if it had been me he had used that way, I'd a fixed his flint for him, so that he'd think twice

afore he'd fire such another shot as that are again. I'd made him make tracks, I guess, as quick as a dog does a hog from a potatoe field. He'd a found his way out of the hole in the

fence a plaguy sight quicker than he came in, I reckon.

His manner, said I, was certainly rather unceremonious at times, but he was so honest and so straightforward, that no person was, I believe, ever seriously offended at him. It was

his way. Then his way was so plaguy rough, continued the clockmaker, that he'd been the better, if he had been ham mered and mauled down smoother. I'd a levelled him as flat as a flounder. Pray, what was his offence? said I. Bad enough you may depend.

The hon'ble Alden Gobble was dyspeptic, and he suffered great oneasiness arter eatin, so he goes to Abernethy for advice. What's the matter with you? said the doctor; jist that way, without passing the time o' day with him-what's the matter with you? said he. Why, says Alden, I presume I have the dyspepsy. Ah! said he, I see; a Yankee swallowed more dollars and cents than he can digest. I am an American citizen, says Alden, with great dignity; I am Secretary to our Legation at the Court of St. James. Mischief you are! said Abernethy; then you'll soon get rid of your dyspepsy. I don't see that are inference, said Alden; it don't fol low from what you predicate at all—it aint a natural consequence, I guess, that a man should cease to be ill, because he is called by the voice of a free and enlightened people to fill an important office. (The truth is, you could no more trap Alden than you could an Indian. He could see other folks trail, and made none himself; he was a real diplomatist, and I believe our diplomatists are allowed to be the best in tho world.) But I tell you it does follow, said the doctor; for in the company you'll have to keep, you'll have to eat like a Christian.

It was an everlasting pity Alden contradicted him, for he broke out like one ravin distracted mad. I'll be hanged, said he, if ever I saw a Yankee that did n't bolt his food whole like a boa constrictor. How can you expect to digest food,