He lov'd old Books and nappy ale, Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case where In some Collector's sepulchre ! Must I be torn herefrom and thrown With frontispiece and colophon! With vagrant E's, and I's, and O's, The spoil of plunder'd Folios! With scraps and snippets that to ME Nay, rather, FRIEND, this favour grant me: CHELTENHAM, Sept. 31, 1792. "BUY, THE WATER OF GOLD UY,-who'll buy?" In the market-place, The quack with his puckered persuasive face "Buy,-who'll buy? In this flask I holdIn this little flask that I tap with my stick, sirIs the famed, infallible Water of Gold, The One, Original, True Elixir ! "Buy,-who'll buy? There's a maiden there,- "Buy,-who'll buy? Are you old and gray? Drink but of this, and in less than a minute, Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May, Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet! "Buy,-who'll buy? Is a baby ill? Drop but a drop of this in his throttle, Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill, Brisk as a burgher over a bottle! "Here is wealth for your life,-if you will but ask; Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion; Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask; And the price is a couple of silver groschen! "Buy,-who'll buy ?" So the tale runs on: And still in the Great World's market-places The Quack, with his quack catholicon, Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces; For he plays on our hearts with his pipe and drum, On our vague regret, on our weary yearning; For he sells the thing that never can come, Or the thing that has vanished, past returning. A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE "De mémoires de Roses on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier." THE Rose in the garden slipped her bud, And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood, As she thought of the Gardener standing by"He is old,—so old! And he soon must die!" The full Rose waxed in the warm June air, And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare; And she laughed once more as she heard his tread "He is older now! He will soon be dead!" But the breeze of the morning blew, and found That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground; And he came at noon, that Gardener old, And I wove the thing to a random rhyme, DON QUIXOTE EHIND thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack, Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe, |