"Tis sweet the nectar of the gods to quaff,
And very pleasant is the rosy wine;
Refreshing is the taste of "half-and-half,"
But of all drinks cold water shall be mine.
The verdant turf is grateful to the feet,
And some recline upon the mossy vale;
But smoothest lawns yield not so soft a seat
As that afforded by a well-filled pail.
Before another century has fled,
Water! thy virtues none will dare deny ;
Posterity will humbly bare its head,
When thou in rain descendest from the sky.
The workman, when his daily labour's done-
Eager alike for luxury and rest-
Will to his water-butt impatient run,
The spigot turn-lie under-and be blest!
No longer to the couch will idlers fly,
When the siesta they would fain invite ;
But 'neath the pump will indolently lie
While lackeys work away with all their might,
No more will builders try their utmost skill,
As now, to render houses waterproof;
But all their tiles in little holes they'll drill,
And make a shower-bath in every roof.
Economists will search in every street
For friendly water-spouts supplied with rain;
Where, gratis, they may with the luxury meet-
Ay, luxury-of water on the brain.
No more shall watering-pots their blessings shed
Alone on vegetables, fruit, and flowers;
But man, reclining on a water-bed,
Shall be refreshed by gently falling showers.
Umbrellas, also, will be only known
By specimens in old museums seen,
Which, as barbaric relics, will be shown
Of customs curious that once had been.
And when 'tis read in history's faithful page,
That pickpockets were pumped on, now and then,
Our children will despise a foolish age,
That so much honoured such unworthy men,
HOMEOPATHIC SOUP.
Then hail! all hail! to hydropathic skill,
Upon whose principles it stands confessed,
That he who cisterns vast will freely swill,
May dropsy cure-or water on the chest.
For nauseous drugs no use there soon will be;
For salts, magnesia, senna, no pretence;
Dispensing chemists, all men will agree
To view as things with which they can dispense.
Physic to agriculture they'll apply,
And write prescriptions for a sickly crop;
With fever mixtures, when the land's too dry,
Inflammatory action they will stop.
In every farm, so modern savants say,
A chemist will be always needed near;
For, if the corn unhealthiness display,
He'll dose it for diseases of the ear.
Should you now desire
That the soup be flavoury,
Stir it once around,
With a stalk of savory,
When the broth is made,
Nothing can excel it:
Then three times a day
Let the patient smell it.
If he chance to die,
Say 'twas Nature did it:
If he chance to live,
Give the soup the credit.
A KINTRA SCHULEMAISTER'S FAREWEEL TAE THE
RICHT SIDE O' HIS BLACK COAT.
FAREWEEL, my auld an' trusty frien',
Ye're no the day as ye hae been,
When ye were glossy, black, and sheen
As raven's wing;
But at you noo ilk ane, I ween,
Maun hae his fling.
I've had you on at mony a rockin',
Where there was fiddlin', fun, an' jokin',
An' nae a ane sat glum or croakin'
Amid the thrang,
But ilk ane laid aside his mopin'
For dance an' sang.
When first I wore you on my back,
I then could haud a twasome crack
With that douce magnate, Bailie Black,
Or Rich, the banker;
Na-even the Provost kindly spak,
Withoot a hanker.
I'm jist the same as I was then,
But shared the fate o' better men
1;
I've lost the village "Upper Ten;"
That luckless coat,
It gars my bosom heave an' sten
When thinkin' o't.
When baskin' 'neath Dame Fortune's rays,
She'll bring you meat, she'll bring you claes,
She'll bring you hollow-hearted praise-
The very best o't;
The wheel gaes roun', and then come faes,
An' a' the rest o't.
The Bailie gies a distant boo,
Nae cracks wi' Rich the banker noo;
The Provost gies, with his pooh-pooh,
The cut direct;
But poortith may be noble too,
If ance yer elbows are but clooted,
Or your coat turned, then ne'er dispute it,
Ye'll find yer credit sairly dootit
An' maybe on the causey hooted-
That's warst ava.
A COUNTRY Schoolmaster, named Jonas Bell,
Once undertook of little souls,
To furnish up their jobbernowls
In other words, he taught them how to spell,
And well adapted to the task was Bell,
Whose iron-visage measured half an ell:
With huge proboscis, and eyebrows of soot,
Armed at the jowl just like a boar,
And when he gave an angry roar,
The little school-boys stood like fishes mute.
Poor Jonas, though a patient man as Job,
(Yet still, like Job, was sometimes heard to growl,) Was by a scholar's adamantine nob,
Beyond all patience gravelled to the soul!
JOHN DAVIDSON.
I question whether Jonas in the fish
Did ever dine on a more bitter dish.
'Twas thus-a lady who supported Bell,
Came unexpectedly to hear them spell :
The pupil fixed on by the pedagogue,
Her son, a little round-faced, ruddy rogue,
Who thus his letters on the table laid-
M, I, L, K—and paused-"Well, sir, what's that?"
"I cannot tell," the boy all trembling said—
"Not tell! you little blind and stupid brat?
Not tell!" roared Jonas, in a violent rage,
And quick prepared an angry war to wage-
"Tell me this instant, or I'll flay thy hide-
Come, sir!
Dost thou this birchen weapon see?
What puts thy mother in her tea ?"
With lifted eyes the quaking rogue replied―
"RUM, sir!! !3'
JOHN DAVIDSON and Tib his wife,
Sat toastin' their taes ae nicht,
When something startit on the floor,
And blinkit by their sicht.
"Guidwife," quoth John, " did ye see that moose?
Whar sorra was the cat ?"
"A moose ?"-" Ay, a moose.”—“ Na, na, guidman, It wasna a moose, 'twas a rat.'
"I've seen mair mice than you, guidman-
An' what think ye o' that?
Sae haud yer tongue an' say nae mair—
I tell ye it was a rat."
"Me haud my tongue for you, guidwife!
I'll be maister o' this hoose-
I saw't as plain as e'en could see,
An' I tell ye it was a moose."
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