And there’s the sleeping poppy, what peace within it resides,
Culled by the Turkish houris in the garden Hesperides;
There’s the soothing comfrey and the glorious hoarhound,
And the magic betal nut, in tropic isles that’s found;
There’s the fragrant fleur de lis, when with pain you cry,
There’s the odorous sheep dung, given always on the sly.
Some dote on peach blossoms; some on saffron red,
Some like hyoscyamus mixed with piss-a-bed;
There’s bread crumbs and fennel mixed with young carrots
Pounded in a mortar along with eschalots.