We’ve a first-class assortment of magic; And for raising a posthumous shade With effects that are comic or tragic, There’s no cheaper house in the trade. Love-philtre—we’ve quantities of it; And for knowledge if any one burns, We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet Who brings us unbounded returns: For he can prophesy With a wink _of_ his eye, Peep with security Into futurity, Sum up your history, Clear up a mystery, Humour proclivity For a nativity. With mirrors so magical, Tetrapods tragical, Bogies spectacular, Answers oracular, Facts astronomical, Solemn or comical, And, if you want it, he Makes a reduction on taking a quantity! Oh! If any one anything lacks, He’ll find it all ready in stacks, If he’ll only look in On the resident Djinn, Number seventy, Simmery Axe! He can raise you hosts, Of ghosts, And that without reflectors; And creepy things With wings, And gaunt and grisly spectres! He can fill you crowds Of shrouds, And horrify you vastly; He can rack your brains With chains, And gibberings grim and ghastly. Then, if you plan it, he Changes organity With an urbanity, Full of Satanity, Vexes humanity With an inanity Fatal to vanity— Driving your foes to the verge of insanity. Barring tautology, In demonology, ’Lectro biology, Mystic nosology, Spirit philology, High class astrology, Such is his knowledge, he Isn’t the man to require an apology Oh! My name is JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS, I’m a dealer in magic and spells, In blessings and curses, And ever-filled purses— In prophecies, witches, and knells. If any one anything lacks, He’ll find it all ready in stacks, If he’ll only look in On the resident Djinn, Number seventy, Simmery Axe! THE FICKLE BREEZE SIGHING softly to the river Comes the loving breeze, Setting nature all a-quiver, Rustling through the trees! And the brook in rippling measure Laughs for very love, While the poplars, in their pleasure, Wave their arms above! River, river, little river, May thy loving prosper ever. Heaven speed thee, poplar tree, May thy wooing happy be!