Part 4 — LINES WRITTEN AFTER A BATTLE. BY AN ASSISTANT SURGEON OF THE NINETEENTH NANKEENS. PUNCH.
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Stiff are the warrior's muscles, Congeal'd, alas! his chyle; No more in hostile tussles Will he excite his bile. Dry is the epidermis, A vein no longer bleeds— And the communis vermis Upon the warrior feeds.
Compress'd, alas! the thorax, That throbbed with joy or pain; Not e'en a dose of borax Could make it throb again. Dried up the warrior's throat is, All shatter'd too, his head: Still is the epiglottis— The warrior is dead.
THE PHRENOLOGIST TO HIS MISTRESS. PUNCH.
Though largely developed's my organ of order, And though I possess my destructiveness small, On suicide, dearest, you'll force me to border, If thus you are deaf to my vehement call
For thee veneration is daily extending, On a head that for want of it once was quite flat; If thus with my passion I find you contending, My organs will swell till they've knocked off my hat
I know, of perceptions, I've none of the clearest; For while I believe that by thee I'm beloved, I'm told at my passion thou secretly sneerest; But oh! may the truth unto me never be proved!
I'll fly to Deville, and a cast of my forehead I'll send unto thee;—then upon thee I'll call. Rejection—alas! to the lover how horrid— When 'tis passion that SPURS-HIM, 'tis bitter as GALL.