The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

Some forty miles from London town,
The wonder of each hyppish clown
Who with the nerves of Hercules
Fancied his carcase ill at ease,
A German quack, whose brickdust pill
Could purge or vomit, cure or kill,
With impudence much more prevailing
Than all the nostrums of old Galen,
Struck up his stage, a sort of trap
Slily to catch each nibbling chap

Who wish'd to bite; and seem'd most fully
Resolv'd to rout that swagg'ring bully,
Death, who time out of mind has got
A licence to send folks to pot;
Who many a madcap hero slew,
And many a perilous doctor too;
Daily by curst diseases stuffing
Devoutly his huge patent coffin.—

Plague on digression! This same wight
Determin'd to undo him quite;
But most he bid him bold defiance
In one particular branch of science,
One curious point. “What branch? what point?
In toe or finger, or what joint?”
Zounds, gentlemen, don't fear your horns;
Only in simply cutting—corns.
As for the sprouts, your wives' creation,
Heav'n shield them all from amputation;
I care not, lemans, if they grow
High as the horns of Jericho.
The great, I'm told, enraptur'd swear
Antlers are very pretty wear;
You say, mesdames, they're quite becoming:
Well, be it so, and hang all humming.

Though in the head we chance to fail,
Allons! let's hasten to the tale.

This valiant quack then, one fair-day,
Declaiming in his usual way,
Strutted, took snuff, look'd wondrous big
In all the learned pomp of wig;
Vaunted what kingly toes he'd shorn,
And read long lectures on “de corne.”
A farmer, who to market brought
Much grain, but had not touch'd a groat,
Thought this a fellow to his mind,
As he no other chap could find;
One who would buy his stock entire,
And pay him to his heart's desire;
So (would his numscull had been thinner!)
Courteous invites him home to dinner;
Hinting he'd something in his way,
And begs the doctor won't delay.

Well; dinner's done; the cloth remov'd;
Each drank the toast to what he lov'd;
When thus the quack accosts him gaily:
“Pray, sare, where mostly do your ail lie?”—
“Sir,” quoth the clown, in manner ample,
“To satisfy, I'll fetch a sample

Of last year's crop.”—“Py cot, I'll crop 'em,”
Exclaims the quack, alert to stop him;
“I'll take 'em, root and pranch, mynheer”.—
“Sir, you know corn is very dear;
But if you please to take the whole,
You'll have a bargain, 'pon my soul.”—
“De whole? Aye, aye; de whole, by Got;
I'll whip de whole out like a shot.”
So saying, while he drew his knife out
(Enough to fright a poor man's life out),
Right soon he rais'd him on his rump,
And seiz'd the wond'ring farmer's stump:
Then, without further disquisition,
On his big toe began incision;
And would have driven the weapon further,
Had not his patient roar'd out, Murther!
“My got, vat morther? Pye ant pye,
Your toe pe vite as your von eye;
I put just touche upon the pone:—
Dare now, you see de job is done.”
Clodpole exclaims: “You rogue, what job?
Fly, skip, or I shall crack your nob.
With your confounded scalping-knife,
You dog, you've crippled me for life;
When I thought luck and cash were stirring,
You've ta'en my corn off with a murrain.”