But, zounds! each fellow with a suit of black, And, strange to fame, With a diploma’d name, That carries two more letters pick-a-back, With cane, and snuff-box, powdered wig, and block, Invents _his_ dose, as if it were a chrism, And dares to treat our wondrous mechanism, Familiar as the works of old Dutch clock; Yet, how would common sense esteem the man, Oh how, my unrelated German cousin, Who having some such time-keeper on trial, And finding it too fast, enforced the dial To strike upon the Homœopathic plan Of fourteen to the dozen? Take my advice, ’tis given without a fee, Drown, drown your book ten thousand fathoms deep Like Prospero’s beneath the briny sea, For spells of magic have all gone to sleep! Leave no decillionth fragment of your works, To help the interests of quacking Burkes; Aid not in murdering even widow’s mites,-- And now forgive me for my candid zeal, I had not said so much, but that I feel Should you _take ill_ what here my Muse indites, An Ode-ling more will set you all to rights. TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET. “Sweeping our flocks and herds.”--DOUGLAS. O philanthropic men!-- For this address I need not make apology-- Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen, And planting further off its vile Zoology-- Permit me thus to tell, I like your efforts well, For routing that great nest of Hornithology! Be not dismay’d although repulsed at first, And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts, Charge on!--you shall upon their hornworks burst, And carry all their _Bull_-warks and their _Ram_-parts. Go on, ye wholesale drovers! And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds! As wild as Tartar-Curds, That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers, Off with them all!--those restive brutes, that vex Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle; And save the female sex From being cow’d--like Iö--by the cattle! Fancy,--when droves appear on The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,-- Your ladies--ready, as they own, to drop, Taking themselves to Thomson’s with a _Fear-on_! Or, in St. Martin’s Lane, Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,-- Fancy the terror of your timid daughters While rushing souse Into a coffee-house, To find it--Slaughter’s.