Homoeopathy, too, he has practised for ages (You'll find his prescriptions in Luke Hansard's pages), Just giving his patient when maddened by pain,-- Of Reform the ten thousandth part of a grain. Tol de rol. He's a med'cine for Ireland, in portable papers; The infallible cure for political vapours; A neat label round it his 'prentices tie-- 'Put your trust in the Lord, and keep this powder dry!' Tol de rol. He's a corn doctor also, of wonderful skill, --No cutting, no rooting-up, purging, or pill-- You're merely to take, 'stead of walking or riding, The sweet schoolboy exercise--innocent sliding. Tol de rol. There's no advice gratis. If high ladies send His legitimate fee, he's their soft-spoken friend. At the great public counter with one hand behind him, And one in his waistcoat, they're certain to find him. Tol de rol. He has only to add he's the real Doctor Flam, All others being purely fictitious and sham; The house is a large one, tall, slated, and white, With a lobby; and lights in the passage at night. Tol de rol: Diddle doll: Tol de rol, de dol, Diddle doll Tol de rol doll. W. III.--SUBJECTS FOR PAINTERS SUBJECTS FOR PAINTERS (AFTER PETER PINDAR) To you, SIR MARTIN,[1] and your co. R.A.'s, I dedicate in meek, suggestive lays, Some subjects for your academic palettes; Hoping, by dint of these my scanty jobs, To fill with novel thoughts your teeming nobs, As though I beat them in with wooden mallets. To you, MACLISE, who Eve's fair daughters paint With Nature's hand, and want the maudlin taint Of the sweet Chalon school of silk and ermine: To you, E. LANDSEER, who from year to year Delight in beasts and birds, and dogs and deer, And seldom give us any human vermin: --To all who practise art, or make believe, I offer subjects they may take or leave. Great Sibthorp and his butler, in debate (_Arcades ambo_) on affairs of state, Not altogether 'gone,' but rather funny; Cursing the Whigs for leaving in the lurch Our d----d good, pleasant, gentlemanly Church, Would make a picture--cheap at any money. Or Sibthorp as the Tory Sec.--at-War, Encouraging his mates with loud 'Yhor! Yhor! From Treas'ry benches' most conspicuous end; Or Sib.'s mustachios curling with a smile, As an expectant Premier without guile Calls him his honourable and gallant friend. Or Sibthorp travelling in foreign parts, Through that rich portion of our Eastern charts Where lies the land of popular tradition; And fairly worshipp'd by the true devout In all his comings-in and goings-out, Because of the old Turkish superstition.