Which, when dinner-time comes, In the lonely harebells, Or a witch from the big lake Ontario! 'Twould fit in so tight, So brilliant and bright, And be made of such capital stuff, That no food Must needs be eschew'd On account of its being too tough; The hardest sea-biscuit to nibble: Nay, with such a sharp tusk, and such polish'd enamel, Dear Prout, you could eat up a camel! As I know you will judge With eye microscopic What I say on this delicate topic, I tell but the bare naked truth, When I say that this tooth, Brought from Africa, when In the depths of a palm-shaded glen It was captured by men, Then adorned, in the full bloom of youth, The jaws of a blood-royal elephant. We are told, That a surgeon of old Oh, 'tis he was well skill'd in the art of nosology! Could make you a nose bran new! I scarce can believe it-can you? And still did a public most keen and discerning Yea, such skill was his, That on any unfortunate phiz, Deprived of its fleshy ridge, He'd raise up a nasal bridge. Now my genius is not so precocious As that of Dr. Tagliacotius, For I only profess to be versed in the art of dontology ; To make you a nose "C'est toute autre chose;" For at best, my dear Prout, Instead of a human snout, You'd get but a sorry apology. But let me alone For stopping a gap, or correcting a flaw Or making a tooth that, like bone of your bone, Will outlive your own, And shine on in the grave when your spirit is flown. I know there's a blockhead That will put you a tooth up with wires, This most impudent fellow Will quietly tell you To take it out of its socket, And put it back into your waistcoat pocket! O most learned divine! For without any spurious auxiliary, So firmly infixed in your dexter maxillary, In some desperate rout, By a sudden discharge of artillery. Thus the firmer 'twill grow, as the wearer grows older, Like that Greek who had gotten an ivory shoulder, You'll be sung by the poets in your turn, O! “Dente Prout humeroque Pelops insignis eburno!” CORBET. VIRG. Georg. II. Come, old Prout, let us have a stave! And first, here's to your health, my old cock! "Perpetual bloom To the Church of Rome!" [Drunk standing. The excellent old man acknowledged the toast with becoming dignity, and tunefully warbled the Latin original of one of " the Melodies." Father Prout's Song. Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betray'd her, When Malachi wore the collar of gold, Which he won from the proud in vader; When Nial, with standard of green unfurl'd, Led the red-branch knights to danger, Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in the brow of a stranger. On Lough Neagh's banks as the fisherman strays, When the cool, calm eve's declining, He sees the round towers of other days Beneath the waters shining. So shall memory oft, in dream sublime, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over, And, sighing, look through the waves of time, For the long-faded glories they cover. Prout cantat. O! utinam sanos mea Ierne recogitet annos Anteà quàm nati vincla dedêre pati, Cùm Malachus TORQUE ut patriæ defensor honorque Ibat: erat verò pignus ab hoste fero. Tempore vexillo viridante equitabat in illo Nialus ante truces fervidus ire duces. Hi nec erant anni radiis in fronte tyranni Fulgeret ut claris, insula gemma maris. Quando tacet ventus, Neaghæ dùm margine lentus Piscator vadit, vesperæ ut umbra cadit, Contemplans undas, turres ibi stare rotundas Credidit, inque lacûs oppida cer nit aquis. Sic memori in somnis res gesta reponitur omnis Historicosque dies rettulit alma quies, Gloria sublimis sese effert fluctibus imis, Atque apparet ibi patria cara tibi. PROUT. I now call on my worthy friend Dowden, whom I am sorry to see indulging in nothing but soda all the |