And now you would swear all the dogs in the place were set on to hunt me down, But neither the brutes nor the people I think are as civilly bred as in town. Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake, and all in a tremble of fright, But instead of a family murder it proved an owl, that flies screeching at night. Then there’s plenty of ricks and stalks all about, and I can’t help dreaming of Swing-- In short, I think that a pastoral life is not the most happiest thing; For, besides all the troubles I’ve mentioned before, as endured for rurality’s sake, I’ve been stung by the bees, and I’ve set among ants, and once--ugh! I trod on a snake! And as to mosquitoes, they tortured me so, for I’ve got a particular skin, I do think it’s the gnats coming out of the ponds, that drives the poor suicides in! And after all an’t there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn Hill? And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles, and fresh butter wherever you will? And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite rustical-like and brown? So one isn’t so very uncountrified in the very heart of the town. Howsomever my mind’s made up, and although I’m sure cousin Giles will be vext, I mean to book me an inside place up to town upon Saturday next, And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the Old Bell and Crown, And perhaps I may come to the country again, when London is all burnt down. THE DOCTOR. A SKETCH. “Whatever is, is right.”--POPE. There once was a Doctor, (No foe to the proctor,) A physic concocter, Whose dose was so pat, However it acted, One speech it extracted,-- “Yes, yes,” said the doctor, “I meant it for that!” And first, all “unaisy,” Like woman that’s crazy, In flies Mistress Casey, “Do come to poor Pat The blood’s running faster! He’s torn off the plaster--” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “I meant it for that!” Anon, with an antic, Quite strange and romantic, A woman comes frantic-- “What could you be at? My darling dear Aleck, You’ve sent him oxalic!” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “I meant it for that!” Then in comes another, Dispatch’d by his mother, A blubbering brother, Who gives a rat-tat-- “Oh, poor little sister Has lick’d off a blister!” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “I meant it for that!” Now home comes the flunkey, His own powder-monkey, But dull as a donkey-- With basket and that-- “The draught for the Squire, Sir, He chuck’d in the fire, Sir--” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “I meant it for that!” The next is the pompous Head Beadle, old Bumpus-- “Lord! here is a rumpus: That pauper, Old Nat, In some drunken notion Has drunk up his lotion--” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “I meant it for that!”