My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks; And though I fixed a lock on "Gray," There's gray upon my locks. I 'm far from "Young," am growing pale, I see my "Butler" fly, And when they ask about my ail, 'T is "Burton" I reply.
They still have made me slight returns, And thus my griefs divide; For O, they cured me of my "Burns," And eased my "Akenside." But all I think I shall not say, Nor let my anger burn, For, as they never found me "Gay," They have not left me "Sterne."
THOMAS HOOD.
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.
My curse upon thy venomed stang, That shoots my tortured gums alang; An' through my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance! Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines.
When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee,—thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan.
Adown my beard the slavers trickle; I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup.
O' a' the numerous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree.
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And rankèd plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, Among them a';
O thou grim mischief-making chiel, And surely mickle 's much. Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick!— Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A fowmond's Toothache!