The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 120 : Run down and bring the little girl; She is his darling, and who knows But--"_&quo

Run down and bring the little girl; She is his darling, and who knows But--"

_"Here she goes, and there she goes!"_

"Lawks! he is mad! What made him thus?

Good Lord! what will become of us?

Run for a doctor,--run, run, run,-- For Doctor Brown and Doctor Dun, And Doctor Black and Doctor White, And Doctor Gray, with all your might!"

The doctors came, and looked, and wondered, And shook their heads, and paused and pondered.

Then one proposed he should be bled,-- "No, leeched you mean," the other said, "Clap on a blister!" roared another,-- "No! cup him,"--"No, trepan him, brother."

A sixth would recommend a purge, The next would an emetic urge; The last produced a box of pills, A certain cure for earthly ills: "I had a patient yesternight,"

Quoth he, "and wretched was her plight, And as the only means to save her, Three dozen patent pills I gave her; And by to-morrow I suppose That--"

_"Here she goes, and there she goes!"_

"You are all fools!" the lady said,-- "The way is just to shave his head.

Run! bid the barber come anon."

"Thanks, mother!" thought her clever son; "You help the knaves that would have bit me, But all creation sha'n't outwit me!"

Thus to himself while to and fro His finger perseveres to go, And from his lips no accent flows But,--_"Here she goes, and there she goes!"_ The barber came--"Lord help him! what A queerish customer I've got; But we must do our best to save him,-- So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him!"

But here the doctors interpose,-- "A woman never--"

_"There she goes!"_

"A woman is no judge of physic, Not even when her baby is sick.

He must be bled,"--"No, cup him,"--"Pills!"

And all the house the uproar fills.

What means that smile? what means that s.h.i.+ver?

The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver, And triumph brightens up his face, His finger yet will win the race; The clock is on the stroke of nine, And up he starts,--"'Tis mine! 'tis mine!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the fifty; I never spent an hour so thrifty.

But you who tried to make me lose, Go, burst with envy, if you choose!

But how is this? where are they?"

"Who?"

"The gentlemen,--I mean the two Came yesterday,--are they below?"

"They galloped off an hour ago."

"Oh, dose me! blister! shave and bleed!

For, hang the knaves, I'm mad indeed!"

_James Nack._

THE QUAKER'S MEETING

A traveller wended the wilds among, With a purse of gold and a silver tongue; His hat it was broad, and all drab were his clothes, For he hated high colors--except on his nose, And he met with a lady, the story goes.

Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

The damsel she cast him a merry blink, And the traveller nothing was loth, I think, Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath, And the Quaker, he grinned, for he'd very good teeth, And he asked, "Art thee going to ride on the heath?"

"I hope you'll protect me, kind sir," said the maid, "As to ride this heath over, I'm sadly afraid; For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound, And I wouldn't for anything I should be found, For, between you and me, I have five hundred pound."

"If that is thee own, dear," the Quaker, he said, "I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed; And I have another five hundred just now, In the padding that's under my saddle-bow, And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow!"

The maiden she smil'd, and her rein she drew, "Your offer I'll take, but I'll not take you,"

A pistol she held at the Quaker's head-- "Now give me your gold, or I'll give you my lead, 'Tis under the saddle, I think you said."

The damsel she ripped up the saddle-bow, And the Quaker was never a quaker till now!

And he saw, by the fair one he wished for a bride, His purse borne away with a swaggering stride, And the eye that shamm'd tender, now only defied.

"The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim," quoth she, "To take all this filthy temptation from thee, For Mammon deceiveth, and beauty is fleeting, Accept from thy maiden this right-loving greeting, For much doth she profit by this Quaker's meeting!

"And hark! jolly Quaker, so rosy and sly, Have righteousness, more than a wench, in thine eye; Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath, Remember the one that you met on the heath, Her name's Jimmy Barlow, I tell to your teeth."

"Friend James," quoth the Quaker, "pray listen to me, For thou canst confer a great favor, d'ye see; The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend, But my master's; and truly on thee I depend, To make it appear I my trust did defend.

"So fire a few shots thro' my clothes, here and there, To make it appear 'twas a desp'rate affair."

So Jim he popp'd first through the skirt of his coat, And then through his collar--quite close to his throat; "Now one thro' my broadbrim," quoth Ephraim, "I vote."

"I have but a brace," said bold Jim, "and they're spent, And I won't load again for a make-believe rent."-- "Then!"--said Ephraim, producing his pistols, "just give My five hundred pounds back, or, as sure as you live, I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve."

Jim Barlow was diddled--and, tho' he was game, He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim, That he gave up the gold, and he took to his sc.r.a.pers, And when the whole story got into the papers, They said that "_the thieves were no match for the Quakers_."

Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

_Samuel Lover._

THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH

One of the Kings of Scanderoon, A royal jester Had in his train, a gross buffoon, Who used to pester The court with tricks inopportune, Venting on the highest folks his Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.

It needs some sense to play the fool, Which wholesome rule Occurred not to our jackanapes, Who consequently found his freaks Lead to innumerable sc.r.a.pes, And quite as many tricks and tweaks, Which only seemed to make him faster Try the patience of his master.

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure Incurred the desperate displeasure Of his Serene and raging Highness: Whether he twitched his most revered And sacred beard, Or had intruded on the shyness Of the seraglio, or let fly An epigram at royalty, None knows: his sin was an occult one, But records tell us that the Sultan, Meaning to terrify the knave, Exclaimed, "'Tis time to stop that breath; Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave!

Thou stand'st condemned to certain death:

"Silence, base rebel! no replying!

But such is my indulgence still, That, of my own free grace and will, I leave to thee the mode of dying,"

"Thy royal will be done--'tis just,"

Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust.

"Since my last moment to a.s.suage, Your majesty's humane decree Has deigned to leave the choice to me, I'll die, so please you, of old age!"

_Horace Smith._