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Lines To A Water-Fowl
by [?]

(Intra Muros.)


Fowl, that sing’st in yonder pool, Where the summer winds blow cool,
Are there hydropathic cures For the ills that man endures? Know’st thou
Priessnitz? What? alack Hast no other word but “Quack?”


Cleopatra’s barge might pale To the splendors of thy tail, Or the
stately caravel Of some “high-pooped admiral.” Never yet left such a
wake E’en the navigator Drake!


Dux thou art, and leader, too, Heeding not what’s “falling due,” Knowing
not of debt or dun,–Thou dost heed no bill but one; And, though scarce
conceivable, That’s a bill Receivable, Made–that thou thy stars mightst
thank–Payable at the next bank.