COLD WATER.
BY A PUPIL OF ONE OF THE LAKE POETS.
Some sing the peaceful pleasures of the plains,
While other bards invoke the groves and woods;
But I, enamour'd of incessant rains,
Will make my theme cold water and the floods.
Let others sit beneath the leafy shade,
While murmuring breezes softly float about;
But I in purling brooks delight to wade,
Or stand beneath some friendly water-spout.
'Tis sweet the nectar of the gods to quaff,
And very pleasant is the rosy wine;
Refreshing is the taste of "half-and-half,"
But of all drinks cold water shall be mine.
The verdant turf is grateful to the feet,
And some recline upon the mossy vale;
But smoothest lawns yield not so soft a seat,
As that afforded by a well-fill'd pail.
Before another century has fled,
Water, thy virtues none will dare deny;
Posterity will humbly bare its head,
When thou in rain descendest from the sky.
The workman, when his daily labour's done,
Eager alike for luxury and rest,
Will to his water-butt impatient run,
The spigot turn—lie under—and be blest!
No longer to the couch will idlers fly,
When the siesta they would fain invite;
But 'neath the pump will indolently lie,
While lackeys work away with all their might.
No more will builders try their utmost skill,
As now, to render houses waterproof;
But all their tiles in little holes they'll drill
And make a shower-bath in every roof.
Economists will search in every street
For friendly water-spouts supplied with rain;
Where, gratis, they may with the luxury meet—
Ay, luxury!—of water on the brain.
No more shall watering-pots their blessings shed,
Alone on vegetables, fruit, and flowers;
But man, reclining on a water bed,
Shall be refresh'd by gently falling showers.
Umbrellas, also, will be only known
By specimens in old museums seen,
Which, as barbaric relics, will be shown
Of customs curious that once have been.
And if some Macintosh (which now we wear,
To keep off wet) escape the wreck of time,
Posterity may find it, and declare
Such cruel things were made to punish crime.
And when 'tis read in history's faithful page
That pickpockets were pump'd on, now and then,
Our children will despise a foolish age,
That so much honour'd such unworthy men.
Then hail! all hail! to hydropathic skill,
Upon whose principles it stands confess'd,
That he who cisterns vast will freely swill
May dropsy cure—or water on the chest.
For nauseous drugs no use there soon will be;
For salts, magnesia, senna, no pretence;
Dispensing chemists, all men will agree
To view as things with which they can dispense.
Physic to agriculture they'll apply,
And write prescriptions for a sickly crop;
With fever mixtures, when the land's too dry,
Inflammatory action they will stop.
In every farm, so modern savans say,
A chemist will be always needed near;
For, if the corn unhealthiness display,
He'd dose it for diseases of the ear.