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'Tis not to wonder at, in such a case,

If she put by the pill-box in a place
For linen rather than for drugs intended--
Yet for the credit of the pills let's say
After they thus were stow'd away,
Some of the linen mended;

But Mrs. W. by disease's dint,

Kept getting still more yellow in her tint,
When lo! her second son, like elder brother,
Marking the hue on the parental gills,
Brought a new charge of Anti-tumeric Pills,
To bleach the jaundiced visage of his Mother-
Who took them-in her cupboard-like the other.

"Deeper and deeper, still," of course,

The fatal colour daily grew in force;
Till daughter W. newly come from Rome,
Acting the self-same filial, pillial, part,
To cure Mamma, another dose brought home
Of Cockles ;-not the Cockles of her heart!

These going where the others went before,
Of course she had a very pretty store,

And then-some hue of health her cheek adorning,
The Medicine so good must be,

They brought her dose on dose, when she

Gave to the up-stairs cupboard, "night and morning."

Till wanting room at last, for other stocks,

Out of the window one fine day she pitch'd

The pillage of each box, and quite enrich'd
The feed of Mister Burrell's hens and cocks,-
A little Barber of a by-gone day,
Over the way

Whose stock in trade, to keep the least of shops,
Was one great head of Kemble,—that is, John,
Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on,

And twenty little Bantam fowls-with crops.

Little Dame W. thought when through the sash

She gave the physic wings,

To find the very things

So good for bile, so bad for chicken rash,

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For thoughtless cock, and unreflecting pullet 1
But while they gather'd up the nauseous nubbies,
Each peck'd itself into a peck of troubles,

And brought the hand of Death upon its gullet.
They might as well have addled been, or ratted,
For long before the night—ah woe betide
The Pills! each suicidal Bantam died
Unfatted!

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Think of poor Burrell's shock,

Of Nature's debt to see his hens all payers,
And laid in death as Everlasting Layers,
With Bantam's small Ex-Emperor, the Cock,
In ruffled plumage and funereal hackle,
Giving, undone by Cockle, a last Cackle!
To see as stiff as stone, his un'live stock.
It really was enough to move his block.
Down on the floor he dash'd, with horror big,
Mr. Beh's third wife's mother's coachman's wig;
And with a tragic stare like his own Kemble,
Burst out with natural emphasis enough,

And voice that grief made tremble,
Into that very speech of sad Macduff—
“What!—all my pretty chickens and their dam,
At one fell swoop!—

Just when I'd bought a coop

To see the poor lamented creatures cram !

After a little of this mood,

And brooding over the departed brood,
With razor he began to ope each craw,
Already turning black, as black as coals;
When lo! the undigested cause he saw-
'Pison'd by goles !"

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To Mrs. W.'s luck a contradiction,
Her window still stood open to conviction;
And by short course of circumstantial labour,
He fixed the guilt upon his adverse neighbour

Lord! how he rail'd at her: declaring now,
He'd bring an action ere next Term of Hilary,
Then, in another moment, swore a vow,

He'd make her do pill-penance in the pillory!
She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dream
Of combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard,
Lapp'd in a paradise of tea and cream;

When up ran Betty with a dismal scream—
"Here's Mr. Burrell, ma'am, with all his farm-yard!"
Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending,

With all the warmth that iron and a barber

Can harbour;

To dress the head and front of her offending,
The fuming phial of his wrath uncorking;
in short, he made her pay him altogether,
In hard cash, very hard, for ev'ry feather,
Charging of course, each Bantam as a Dorking;
Nothing could move him, nothing make him supple,
So the sad dame unpocketing her loss,

Had nothing left but to sit hands across,

And see her poultry "going down ten couple."

Now birds by poison slain,

As venom'd dart from Indian's hollow cane,
Are edible; and Mrs. W.'s thrift, —

She had a thrifty vein,

Destined one pair for supper to make shift,—
Supper as usual at the hour of ten :

But ten o'clock arrived and quickly pass'd,
Eleven-twelve-and one o'clock at last,
Without a sign of supper even then!
At length the speed of cookery to quicken.
Betty was call'd, and with reluctant feet,

Came up at a white heat

"Well, never I see chicken like them chicken!

My saucepans, they have been a pretty while in 'em!
Enough to stew them, if it comes to that,

To flesh and bones, and perfect rags; but drat
Those Anti-biling Pilis ¡ there is no bile in 'em!"

2 B

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ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.*

AH me! those old familiar bounds!

That classic house, those classic grounds

My pensive thought recalls!

What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls?

Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row!

Its chimneys in the rear!

And there's the iron rod so high,

That drew the thunder from the sky,

And turned our table-beer!

There I was birched! there I was bred!

There like a little Adam fed

From Learning's woeful tree.
The weary tasks I used to con!—
The hopeless leaves I wept upon !—
Most fruitless leaves to me !-

The summored class !-the awful bow!

I wonder who is master now,

And wholesome anguish sheds !
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!

And Mrs. S- ?-Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the parlour) yet
Some favour'd two or three,—
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize-bohea?

* No connection with any other Ode.

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Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime

So wildly I have read !—

Who sits there now, and skims the cream

Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
Of Love and Cottage-bread?

Who struts the Randall of the walk?
Who models tiny heads in chalk?

Who scoops the light canoe?
What early genius buds apace?

Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase?
Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew?

Alack! they're gone-a thousand ways!
And some are serving in "the Greys,"
And some have perish'd young !—

Jack Harris weds his second wife;
Hal Baylis drives the wane of life;

And blithe Carew-is hung!

Grave Bowers teaches A B C

To savages at Owhyee !

Poor Chase is with the worms!-
All, all are gone-the olden breed !—
New crops of mushroom boys succeed,
"And push us from our forms!"

Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout,
And leap, and skip, and mob about,

At play where we have play'd!

Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine,—
And some are in the shade!

Lo there what mix'd conditions iun !
The orphan lad; the widow's son;

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