Enquiries were made. It was seen,
When the stuff was put to the test,
That DR. PYRETIC SALINE
Had discovered a fine mare's nest.
For holes in the cliff were spied
Where bat and pigeon abode,
From whence, in an odorous tide,
This wondrous "petroleum" flow'd.
Of this they analyzed some;—
And discover'd—oh horrible!—that
The Doctor's "petroleum"
Was the DUNG OF PIGEON AND BAT!
Dr. Little's Grand Antidote for Snake-Bites
Sapient Dr. Little to the public papers wrote,—
"At length, for bites of Cobras, I found an antidote.
On all my native servants this remedy I've tried,
And though they've oft been bitten, not one of them has died.
This remedy is simple, empyric, and complete,—
One pint of brandy hourly, and taken almost neat."
Thus wrote Dr. Little. But his letter had
Been perfect, had he added, the Post Scripts that I add.—
"Such treatment is effective. A drowsiness sets in:
O'er the features of the patient there spreads a languid grin.
With low and gentle hiccups, he croones an Indian lay,
Then with a final stagger, falls down, and snores away.
Not till the following morning, when high has climb'd the sun,
Is his slumber broken, or his snoring done.
The poison then is conquer'd. But it often leaves behind
A thirstiness, a head-ache, a depression of the mind.
But this to cure is easy. The head-ache quickly flies
If the patient round his forehead a well-wet towel ties.
His mind's prostration likewise, likewise his thirstiness,
Are quickly counteracted by a dose of B. and S."
(Post Script, No. II.) "But very strange to say
Those who've been once bitten, and treated in this way,
Within a week are certain, to come, with groans of pain,
To tell me that a cobra has bitten them again!"
The Good Sir Gammon Row.
O who has not heard of that wonderful man,
SIR GAMMON ROW, the great Dewan,
Who has ruled for the last ten years, or more,
The Protected State of Cocoanutcore?
This State, if judged from "Reports" you read,
Is a very wonderful State indeed;—
A "Model State," in which you may see
Every thing is just as it should be.
Where dwells a worthy and well-oil'd nation,
Blest with a faultless administration;
The brightest land, with the lightest tax,
And an annual surplus of fifty lacs:
Where happy ryots, ne'er pester'd by famines,
Till fields, in subjection to blessed Brahmins.
A land of peace, a land of delight,
Where everyone, everywhere, always does right.
Where whitemen, living in meek minority,
Acknowledge Brahminical superiority.
In short, and I'm sure I cannot say more,
'Tis a heaven upon earth, this Cocoanutcore!