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: 115 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!" 6 So wise by such a lesson grown, And to the self-same suff'rer paid his court- And to his master made this dread report: Why sir, we ne'er can keep that patient under-- A horse!' the elder man of physic cried, 116 ON THE DEATH OF A BLACKSMITH. head?' How came so wild a notion in your 6 • Like you, I took a peep beneath the bed, 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, By forging he liv'd--yet never was tried With the sons of St. Crispin no kindred he claim'd, He handled no awl, and yet in his time He blew up no coals of sedition, but still No actor was he, nor concern'd with the stage, Yet oft in his shop (like a crowd in a rage) Tho' steeling of axes was part of his cares, And tho' he was constantly beating on bars, 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. 117 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; An oak and an elm tree stand beside, A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne; For from cock-crow he had been travelling, He drank of the water so cool and clear, 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, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day, 118 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. Or hast thy good-woman, if one thou hast, For an if she have, I'll venture my life But that my draught should be better for that, St. Keyne, quoth the countryman, many a time And before the angel summoned her, If the husband of this gifted well For he shall be master for life. 1 But if the wife should drink of it first- The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne, You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes? But the countryman smil'd as the stranger spake, I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, But i' faith she had been wiser than me, 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, Benighted was an ancient dame, Her footsteps knew no idle stops, Where clam'rous rooks, yet scarcely hush'd, And many a wing the foliage brush'd, The dappled herd of grazing deer Darker it grew; and darker fears She turn'd; it stopt!-nought could she see But as she strove the sprite to flee, Now terror seiz'd her quaking frame: Yet once again, amidst her fright, 119 |