I like your Governess; and there’s a striking Tale of Two Brothers, that sets tears a-flowing-- But I’m not going All through the bill to tell you of my liking. Suffice it, Fanny Kelly! with your art So much in love, like others I have grown, I really mean myself to take a part In “Free and Easy”--at my own bespeak-- And shall three times a week Drop in and make your pretty house my own! TO DOCTOR HAHNEMANN. THE HOMŒOPATHIST. Well, Doctor, Great concoctor Of medicines to help in man’s distress; Diluting down the strong to meek, And making even the weak more weak, “Fine by degrees, and beautifully less”-- Founder of a new system economic, To druggists anything but comic; Framed the whole race of Ollapods to fret, At profits, like thy doses, very small; To put all Doctors’ Boys in evil case, Thrown out of bread, of physic, and of place,-- And show us old Apothecaries’ Hall “To Let.” How fare thy Patients? are they dead or living, Or, well as can expected be, with such A style of practice, liberally giving “A sum of more to that which had too much?” Dost thou preserve the human frame, or turf it? Do thorough draughts cure thorough colds or not? Do fevers yield to anything that’s hot? Or hearty dinners neutralise a surfeit? Is’t good advice for gastronomic ills, When Indigestion’s face with pain is crumpling, To cry “Discard those Peristaltic Pills, Take a hard dumpling!” Tell me, thou German Cousin, And tell me honestly without a diddle, Does an attenuated dose of rosin Act as a _tonic_ on the old _Scotch fiddle_? Tell me, when Anhalt-Coethen babies wriggle, Like eels just caught by sniggle, Martyrs to some acidity internal, That gives them pangs infernal, Meanwhile the lip grows black, the eye enlarges; Say, comes there all at once a cherub-calm, Thanks to that soothing homœopathic balm, The half of half, of half, a drop of “_varges_?” Suppose, for instance, upon Leipzig’s plain, A soldier pillowed on a heap of slain, In urgent want both of a priest and proctor; When lo! there comes a man in green and red, A featherless cocked-hat adorns his head, In short a Saxon military doctor-- Would he, indeed, on the right treatment fix, To cure a horrid gaping wound, Made by a ball that weighed a pound, If he well peppered it with number six? Suppose a felon doomed to swing Within a _rope_, Might friends not hope To cure him with a _string_? Suppose his breath arrived at a full stop, The shades of death in a black cloud before him, Would a quintillionth dose of the New Drop Restore him?