A soldier once, he once endured

A bullet in the breast —
It might have killed — but only cured

An asthma in the chest ;
He was not to be slain with gun,
For he is the Undying One.


In water once too long he dived,

And all supposed him beat,
He seemed so cold – but he revived

To have another heat,
Just when we thought his race was run,
And came in fresh — th' Undying One !


To look at Meux's once he went,

And tumbled in the vat -
And greater Jobs their lives have spent

In lesser boils than that,-
He left the beer quite underdone,
No bier to the Undying One !

He's been from strangulation black,

From bile, of yellow hue,
Scarlet from fever's hot attack,

From cholera morbus blue ;
VOL. III. 15

Yet with these dyes — to use a pun — He still is the Undying One.

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He rolls in wealth, yet has no wife

His Three per Cents. to share;
He never married in his life,

Or flirted with the fair ;
The sex he made a point to shun,
For beauty an Undying One.


To judge him by the present signs,

The future by the past,
So quick he lives, so slow declines,

The Last Man won't be last,
But buried underneath a ton
Of mould by the Undying One !


Next Friday week his birthday boast,

His ninetieth year he spends, And I shall have his health to toast

Amongst expectant friends, And wish — it really sounds like fun Long life to the Undying One!


THOSE who much read advertisements and bills,
Must have seen puffs of Cockle's Pills,

Called Anti-bilious —
Which some Physicians sneer at, supercilious,
But which we are assured, if timely taken,

May save your liver and bacon ;
Whether or not they really give one ease,

I, who have never tried,

Will not decide;
But no two things in union go like these —
Viz:- Quacks and Pills — save Ducks and

Now Mrs. W. was getting sallow,
Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow,
And friends portended was preparing for

A human Pâté Périgord ;
She was, indeed, so very far from well,
Her Son, in filial fear, procured a box
Of those said pellets to resist Bile's shocks,
And — tho’ upon the ear it strangely knocks -
To save her by a Cockle from a shell !

But Mrs. W., just like Macbeth,
Who very vehemently bids us “throw

Bark to the Bow-wows,” hated physic so,
It seemed to share “the bitterness of death :”.
Rhubarb — Magnesia — Jalap, and the kind -
Senna — Steel — Assa-foetida, and Squills —
Powder or Draught — but least her throat in-

To give a course to Boluses or Pills ;
No — not to save her life, in lung or lobe,
For all her lights' or all her liver's sake,
Would her convulsive thorax undertake,
Only one little uncelestial globe !

”T is 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 stowed 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


“Deeper and deeper, still,” of course,

The fatal color 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 adorn-

The Medicine so good must be,

They brought her dose on dose, which she Gave to the up-stairs cupboard, “ night and morn

Till wanting room at last, for other stocks,
Out of the window one fine day she pitched
The pillage of each box, and quite enriched
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, For thoughtless cock and unreflecting pullet ! But while they gathered up the nauseous nubbles, . Each pecked itself into a peck of troubles, And brought the hand of Death upon its gullet.

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