THE APOTHECARY OF NEWCASTLE. A man in many a country town we know,

Professes openly' with death to wrestle, Entering 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 suffering patient saith,)

Though the apothecary fights with Death, Still3 they are sworn friends to one another.

A member of this Æsculapian line 4

Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne :
No man could better5 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, 6

Or spread a plaster.
His fame full six miles round the country ran;

In short, in reputation he was solus :7 All the old women call'd him “ a fine man;" —

His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade

(Which oftentimes will genius fetter,) 8

Poor man, I would save him his fruit if I could,
But staying behind will do him no good.

“ If this matter depended alone upon me,
His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the tree :
But since they will take them, I think I'll go too ;
He will lose none by me, though I get a few.”2

His scruples thus silenced,3 Tom felt more at ease,
And went with his comrades the apples to seize :
He blamed and protested, but join'd in the plan ;
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man.

Conscience slumber'd a while, but soon woke in his breast,
And in language severe the delinquent address'd:4
“With such empty and selfish pretences away !5
By your actions you 're judged, 6 be your speech what it may.”?

W. COWPER.
1731–1800.

THE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH.

A Fox, in life's extreme decay,
Weak, sick, and faint, expiring lay;
All appetite had left his maw,
And age disarm’d his mumbling jaw.
His num'rous races around him stand,
To learn their dying sire's command ;
He raised his head with dying moan,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had
It was indeed a very sorry hack;

But that's of course : 1

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

Bolus arrived, and gave a doubtful tap,
Between a single and a double rap.2
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’ and grim,
As if the apothecary had physick'd 3 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.4 “Well, how? what then ? 5 speak out, you dunce ! ” “Why then,” said John, “we shook him once.” “ Shook him ! how ?"6 Bolus stammer'd out.

“We jolted him about.” “Well ! shake a patient, man ! a shake won't do."? “No, sir, and so we gave him two."

“Two shakes ! 'Twould make the patient worse.” 8 “ It did so, sir, and so a third we tried.” “Well, and what then ? "_" Then, sir, my master died.”

And infamy hath mark'd our race.
Though we, like harmless sheep, should feed,
Honest in thought, in word, and deed,
Whatever hen-roost is decreased, 2
We shall be thought to share the feast.3
The change shall never be believed ;
A lost good name is ne'er retrieved.”
—“Nay, then,” replies the feeble fox,
“But hark! I hear a hen that clucks !
Go, but be moderate in your food ;
A chicken too, might do me good !"

J. Gay. 1688–1732.

BALLAD OF LORD WILLIAM.
No eye beheld when William plunged

Young Edmund in the stream ;
No human ear but William's heard

Young Edmund's drowning scream.

Submissive all the vassal's own'd 4

The murderer for their lord,
And he as rightful heir possess'd

The houses of Erlingford.

The ancient house of Erlingford

Stood in a fair domain,
And Severn's ample waters near

Roll'd through the fertile plain.

The cause of strife removed so rarely well,
“There take, (says Justice,) take ye each a shell ;
We thrive at Westminster on fools like you :
'Twas a fat oyster-live in peace-adieu.”

A. POPE. 1688–1744.

THE LAST MINSTREL.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old,
His wither'd cheek and tresses gray
Seem'd to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of border chivalry,
For well-a-day! their date was fled, 2
His tuneful brethren 3 all were dead,
And he, neglected and oppressid,
Wish'd to be with them, and at rest.4
No more5 on prancing palfrey bore,
He caroll'd light as lark at morn:
No longer courted and caress’d,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour'd to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay : 6
Old times were changed, old manners gone,
A stranger fill’d the Stuart's throne,
A wandering harper scorn’d and poor,