The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
 | I. |
|
|
| a. |
| b. |
ON THE DEATH OF A QUACK |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| II. |
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
ON THE DEATH OF A QUACK
Here lyes Lifes Cobler who untimly fellBy name of Doctor Drug'em known to all
His frequent visits mad[e] him known full well
For where he'd business he ne'er faild to call
Fools praisd his power as great in saving Life
& for that purpose many a Journey made
To Village Lout & Tradesmans Wimsy Wife
But some there must be to incourage trade
331
& what wou'd docters do if't wa'n't for fools?
They then might keep at home & shut up shop
Their pills & mixtures would be usless tools
—The Doctors Drugs one certain Virtue claims
Which in his Wondorous Bills he never puts
E'faith why don't they?—'t'wou'd increase their fame
To empty Pockets well as scour the Guts
At this our Drug'em was Expert enough
The Art he practis'd knew it wondorous well
While money lasted he ne'er faild of Stuff
& Fools would buy 'em—he knew how to sell
& faith of Custom from his noted skill
He never faild—his fame the Village spred
Tho ignorant of the cause—too strong a Pill
Has workd a Paietent—now & then to dead
Yet still his fame & customers increas'd
Who he by Practise prov'd not over nice
& playd as good a part wi' them at least
For as they E'k'd his fame—he Ek'd his Price
His Drugs went off—(& Doctors will be paid)
So money tumbld in most wondorous free
But Fortunes Sun shine often finds a shade
The happiest crosses meet—& so did he
Death—who'd ta'en many a Patient off his hands
& wether want of Work—Or wether whim
What caus'd his coming—no one understands
But he was hunting & he hunted him
332
Himself at once—nor made one doubtful stop
Spite of his being a Doctor—Boldly went
& Seiz'd him in his Garrison—his Shop
Where all his Weapons dreadfully displayd
Bid bold Defiance on each hand Bill Read
& Pills & Powders desperate sallies made
Pelting like hail Round the Besiegers head
But Death feard nought—yet when the Phisic flew
The stink so nausious—made him turn about
& forcd him to Retreat awhile to spew
—But frequent Sallies wore the Doctor out
A Time to prove his Art was fairly bid
Patients Expected—(Fools have little wit)
That he would play his part—well so he did
But then it faild & then the fools were bit
They provd too well his Art of Getting Pelf
But tother Art was either Lost or past
If he sav'd them he cou'd not save him self
So here Poor Drug'em lies a Quack at Last?
| The early poems of John Clare | |