Next morning early Bolus rose, Who a vile trick of stumbling had : Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance; Out of their fingers. The servant lets him in, with dismal face, John's countenance as rueful looked and grim, 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?-how ?-what then?-speak out, you dunce!" Why then (says John) we shook him once.' "Shook him! how? how?" friend Bolus stammered out."We jolted him about." What! shake the patient, man!-why that won't do." "No, Sir, (quoth John) and so we gave him two.” 66 Two shakes! oh, luckless verse! "Twould make the patient worse!" "It did so, Sir,—and so a third we tried.' " Well, and what then?"-" Then, Sir, my master-died." COLMAN. THE RAZOR-SELLER. A FELLOW, in a market-town, Most musical cried razors up and down, As every man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard: And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, 66 This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. "No matter if the fellow be a knave, 66 Provided that the razors do but shave: "It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So, home the clown with his good fortune went, Smiling in heart, and soul content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, 'Twas a vile razor! then the rest he tried; 66 I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse!" In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped and swore ; Brought blood and danced, reviled and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er. His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff, 1 "Razors! a vile confounded dog! Hodge sought the fellow, found him, and begun: Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that won't shave.” Friend,” quoth the razor-man, “ I'm not a knave: "Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for, then, you dog!" he cries: 'Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile, " to sell." DR. WALCOT. THE SURGEON AND THE HOUSE PAINTERS. (From "Gaieties and Gravities.") PAINTERS are like the dry-rot; if we let 'em There's no ejectment that can get 'em Out, till they've fairly played their pranks. And as my hearers, doubtless, would like vastly I'll tell them, for their ease and comfort, In that great thoroughfare for calves, Of Norton Folgate gormandising, There dwelt a surgeon, who went halves With the apothecary, in the earnings From broken limbs and accidents arising. In short, he couldn't find one benefactor The fact is, that they never took the road, Departed from the Swan with two Necks, Who deem one neck sufficient for the risks Of ditches, drunkards, wheels, and four-legged frisks. Just as they entered Romford with a dash, Meaning to pass the opposition, The front wheel came in violent collision With a low post—was shivered-smash! And down the coach came with a horrid crash. Zooks!" cried the coachman, as he swore and cursed, That rascal Jack will get to Chelmsford first. We might have had worse luck on't; for I sees "None of the horses hasn't broke their knees." As to his fare, or any human limb, Had ten been broken, 'twas all one to him. Luckily for the passengers, the master Of the Plough Inn, who witnessed the disaster, Then hied himself into the town, to urge on He came inquired the wounds and spasms Bandaging some, and letting others blood, To the main chance-and so she cried, " Poor creatures! "Dear me-how shocking to be wounded thus !— A famous God-send, certainly, for us! Don't tell me any more, my dear Cathartic, "The horrid story really makes my heart ache. One broken rib-an ankle sprained-that's worse; "I mean that's better, for it lasts the longer; "Those careless coachmen are the traveller's curse, How lucky that they had n't got to Ongar! "Two bad contusions-several ugly wounds, "Why this should be a job of fifty pounds! 66 66 So now there's no excuse for being stingy; 'Tis full twelve years—no matter when it was— At all events, the parlour's horrid dingy, 66 And now it shall be painted—that is poz!" The painters come-two summer days they give (The smell's enough to make the stoutest man ill), And now, in all their deleterious glory, They fall upon the wainscot con amore; The parlour's done-you wouldn't know the room, It looks four times as large, and eight times lighter; But most unluckily, as that grew whiter, The hall looked less, and put on tenfold gloom. "There's no use doing things by halves, my dear, 66 66 We must just titivate the hall, that's clear." 'Well, be it so, you've my consent, my love, But when that's done, the painters go, by Jove!" |