The Three Warnings.

THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

This strong affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,

And looking grave, "You must," says he,
Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'
With you!" and quit my Susan's side!
With you!" the hapless husband cried:
Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard:
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared;
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-night, you know."

What more he urged, I have not heard;
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.

Yet, calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke:
"Neighbour," he said, "farewell; no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And farther, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summon'd to the grave:
Willing for once, I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve;

Next morning early, Bolus rose;
And to the patient's house he goes
Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had':
It was indeed a very sorry hack;
But that's of course:

For what's expected from a horse,
With an apothecary on his back?

Bolus arrived, and gave a double tap,
Between a single and a double rap.—
Knocks of this kind

Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance;
By fiddlers, and by opera-singers:
One loud, and then a little one behind,
As if the knocker fell, by chance
Out of their fingers.-

The servant let him in with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place-

Portending some disaster:

John's countenance as rueful look'd and grim,
As if the apothecary had physick'd him,
And not his master.

"Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said. John shook his head. "Indeed?-hum!-ha!-that's very odd, He took the draught?"—John gave a nod! "Well-how?-What then?-Speak out, you dunce!" Why then," says John, "we shook him once."

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Shook him!-how?" Bolus stammer'd out.

"Zounds! shake a patient, man-a shake won't do.” No, sir-and so we gave him two."

Two shakes!-odds curse!
"Twould make the patient worse.'

"It did so, sir-and so a third we tried."

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"Well, and what then?"" Then, sir, my master died!"

Colman.

The Three Warnings.

THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

This strong affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,

And looking grave," You must," says he,
Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."
With you!" and quit my Susan's side!

"With you!" the hapless husband cried:
Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard:
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared;
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-night, you know."

What more he urged, I have not heard;
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.

Yet, calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke: "Neighbour," he said, "farewell: no more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour; And farther, to avoid all blame

Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summon'd to the grave:
Willing for once, I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve;

In hopes you'll have no more to say;
But when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wisely well;
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell:

He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,
Nor thought of death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew;
Many his gains, his children few,
He pass'd his smiling hours in peace;
And still he view'd his wealth increase.
While thus, along life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year

When, lo! one night in musing mood,
As all alone he sat,

The unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.

Half kill'd with anger and surprise,

"So soon return'd?" old Dobson cries.

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'So soon, do you call it?" Death replies: "Surely, my friend, you're but in jest; Since I was here before,

"Tis six and thirty years at least,

And you are now fourscore."

So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd;

"To spare the aged would be kind:

Besides, you promised me Three warnings,

Which I have look'd for, nights and mornings;

And for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages."

I know," says Death, “that, at the best,

I seldom am a welcome guest;

But don't be captious, friend, at least;

I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable;
Your years have run to a great length,
I wish you joy though of your strength."

Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast;

I have been lame these four years past."

"And no great wonder," Death replies:
However, you still keep your eyes;

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And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms may make amends.' "Perhaps, says Dobson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight."

"This is a shocking tale, in truth;

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But there's some comfort still," says Death:
Each strives your sadness to amuse;

I warrant, you hear all the news."

"There's none," he cries; "and if there were,
I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear."
Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoin'd,
These are unjustifiable yearnings;
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind

You have your three sufficient warnings;
So come along, no more we'll part:"
He said, and touch'd him with his dart;
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate.-So ends my tale.

The Razor-Seller.

A FELLOW, in a market-town,

Most musical cried razors up

and down,

And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, And, for the money, quite a heap,

As every man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard:

Poor Hodge! who suffer'd by a thick, black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose,
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose!

Piozzi.