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THE DOCTOR AND HIS APPRENTICE.

The master-doctor solemnly perus'd

His victim's face, and o'er his symptoms mus'd; Look'd wise, said nothing-an unerring way, When people nothing have to say:

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Then felt his pulse, and smelt his cane, And paus'd and blink'd, and smelt again, And briefly of his corps perform each motion: Manoeuvres that for death's platoon are meant, A kind of a make ready and present, Before the fell discharge of pill and potion. At length the patient's wife he thus address'd: Madam, your husband's danger's great; And (what will never his complaint abate) "The man's been eating oysters I perceive,' 'Dear! you 're a witch, I verily believe," Madam replied, and to the truth confess'd.

Skill so prodigious Bobby too admir'd ; And home returning, of the sage inquir'd How these same oysters came into his head; Psha! my dear Bob, the thing was plain-'Sure that can ne'er distress thy brain: 'I saw the shells lie underneath the bed!"

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So wise by such a lesson grown,
Next day Bob ventur'd forth alone,

And to the self-same suff'rer paid his court-
But soon, with haste and wonder out of breath,
Return'd the stripling minister of death,

And to his master made this dread report:

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Why sir, we ne'er can keep that patient under--
Zounds! such a maw I never came across!
The fellow must be dying and no wonder,
'For--if he has n't eat a horse!?

A horse!' the elder man of physic cried,
As if he meant his pupil to deride--

116 ON THE DEATH OF A BLACKSMITH.

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How came so wild a notion in your
How! think not in my duty I was idle;

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• Like you, I took a peep beneath the bed,

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And there I saw a saddle and a bridle"

ON THE DEATH OF A BLACKSMITH.

WITH the nerves of a Sampson, this son of the sledge,

By the anvil his livelihood got,

With the skill of a Vulcan could temper an edge,
And strike-while the iron was hot.

By forging he liv'd--yet never was tried
Or condemn'd by the laws of the land;
But still it is certain, and can't be denied,
He often was-burnt in the hand.

With the sons of St. Crispin no kindred he claim'd,
With the last he had nothing to do;

He handled no awl, and yet in his time
Made many an excellent shoe.

He blew up no coals of sedition, but still
His bellows were always in blast ;
And I will acknowledge (deny it who will)
That one vice, and but one, he possess'd.

No actor was he, nor concern'd with the stage,
No audience to awe him appear'd;

Yet oft in his shop (like a crowd in a rage)
The voice of hissing was heard.

Tho' steeling of axes was part of his cares,
In thieving he never was found,

And tho' he was constantly beating on bars,
No vessel he e'er ran aground.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

Alas! and alack! what more can I say

Of Vulcan's unfortunate son?

The priest and the sexton have borne him away, And the sound of his hammer is done.

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THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

The reported virtue of the water is this, that whether husband or wife come first to drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby.

A WELL there is in the west country,

And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,
And behind does an ash tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne;
Joyfully he drew nigh,

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he,

And he sat down upon the bank,

Under the willow tree.

There came a man from the neighbouring town At the well to fill his pail ;

On the well-side he rested it,

And he bade the stranger hail.

Now art thou a batchelor, stranger? quoth he,
For, an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day,
That ever thou didst in thy life.

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THE FAKENHAM GHOST.

Or hast thy good-woman, if one thou hast,
Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an if she have, I'll venture my life
She has drank of the well of St. Keyne.
I have left a good woman who never was here,
The stranger he made reply,

But that my draught should be better for that,
I pray you answer me why.

St. Keyne, quoth the countryman, many a time
Drank of this chrystal well,

And before the angel summoned her,
She laid on the water a spell.

If the husband of this gifted well
Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.

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But if the wife should drink of it first-
God help the husband then!

The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.

You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?
He to the countryman said;

But the countryman smil'd as the stranger spake,
And sheepishly shook his head.

I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch;

But i' faith she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church.

THE FAKENHAM GHOST.

(BLOOMFIELD.).

THE lawns were dry in Euston Park; (Here truth inspires my tale)

THE FAKENHAM GHOST.

The lonely foot-path still and dark,
Led over hill and dale.

Benighted was an ancient dame,
And fearful haste she made
To gain the vale of Fakenham,
And hail its willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops,
But follow'd faster still;
And echo'd to the darksome copse
That whisper'd on the hill.

Where clam'rous rooks, yet scarcely hush'd,
Bespoke a peopled shade;

And many a wing the foliage brush'd,
And hov'ring circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing deer
That sought the shades by day,
Now started from her path with fear,
And gave the stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fears
Came o'er her troubled mind;
When now, a short quick step she hears
Come patting close behind.

She turn'd; it stopt!-nought could she see
Upon the gloomy plain

But as she strove the sprite to flee,
She heard the same again.

Now terror seiz'd her quaking frame:
For, where the path was bare,
The trotting ghost kept on the same!
She mutter'd many a prayer.

Yet once again, amidst her fright,
She tried what sight could do;

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