That picture of a perfect Jew,

Whose days will never end:
I'm sure it means my Uncle Lunn,
For he is an Undying One.

III.

These twenty years he's been the same,
And may be twenty more;

But Memory's Pleasures only claim
His features for a score;

Yet in that time the change is none

The image of th' Undying One!

IV.

They say our climate's damp and cold,
And lungs are tender things;
My uncle's much abroad and old,
But when "King Cole " he sings,
A Stentor's voice, enough to stun,
Declares him an Undying One.

V.

Others have died from needle-pricks,

And very slender blows; From accidental slips or kicks,

Or bleedings at the nose;

Or choked by grape-stone, or a bun
But he is the Undying One!

VI.

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.

VII.

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!

VIII.

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!

IX.

He's been from strangulation black,
From bile, of yellow hue,

Scarlet from fever's hot attack,

From cholera morbus blue;
15

VOL. III.

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

X.

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.

XI.

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!

XII.

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!

COCKLE v. CACKLE.

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,

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 inclined

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
other.

"Deeper and deeper, still," of course,
The fatal color daily grew in force;

Till daughter W. newly come from Rome,