SONGS OF THE SICK ROOM.

NO. 1. COD LIVER OIL.

ON the bleak shore of Norway, I 've lately been told,

Large numbers of cod-fish are found,

And the animals' livers are afterwards sold

At so many "pfennigs" per pound;

From which is extracted, with infinite toil,

A villainous fluid called cod-liver oil!

Now, I don't mind a powder, a pill, or a draught—

Though I mingle the former with jam—

And many's the mixture I've cheerfully quaff'd,

And the pill I have gulp'd like a lamb.

But then I envelop my pills in tin-foil,

And I can't do the same with my cod-liver oil!

In the course of my lifetime I 've swallow'd enough

To have floated a ship of the line,

And it 's purely the fault of this horrible stuff

That I've ceased to enjoy ginger wine.

For how can you wonder to see me recoil

From a liquor I mix'd with my cod-liver oil?

There are few deeds of daring from which I should quail—

There are few things I'd tremble to do—

But there's one kind of tonic that makes me turn pale,

And quite spoils my appetite, too;

But, you see, just at present, I Ve got none to spoil—

So I don't mind alluding to cod-liver oil!

NO. 2. NIGHT AND MORNING.

They brought to my couch (I had not slept a wink,

For brooding all night on my ills)

A neat-looking bottle of something to drink.

And a neat-looking box full of pills.

A neat-looking label attracted my sight,

The neck of the bottle adorning,

Saying, "Please to take two of the pills every night

And a sixth of the draught in the morning."

After slowly perusing these words once or twice,

In a deeply contemplative way,

I exclaim'd, what a volume of useful advice

Does this one little sentence convey!

My friends, though to-day may seem cloudless and bright,

Neglect not to-morrow's dark warning;

And oh! while you 're taking the pills of to-night,

Forget not the draught in the morning!

NO. 3. GENERAL DEBILITY.

My cheeks are pale, mine eyes are weak,

I 've cramp in every joint;

My jaws are toothless, and my beak

Is fractured—near the point.

In youth, by falling from a tree,

I broke my boyish spine;

And never yet did mortal see

Such hideous legs as mine.

In early life my skull was crack'd,

By tumbling down a drain,

And ever since my head is rack'd

With agonising pain.

But though misfortunes thickly come,

This thought consoles my mind—

If I had not been deaf and dumb,

Perhaps I should be blind.