Classic Poem

Poor Celia sell sick and look'd wonderful bad
Which greatly alarm'd both her mammy and dad,
The cause of her illness no one could come nigh,
For all that, she said, was alas! I shall die.

The doctor was sent for, and came in all haste,
In desperate cases there's no time to waste;
He smelt of his cane, and he turn'd up his eye
Yet Celia said doctor, alas! I shall die.

He next felt her pulse, cry'd, hem, and then, ha!
And canvast in thought o'er the physical law,
Paracelsus , or Galen , could not shew him why,
A damsel so young should complain she should die.

Secur'd of his fee he resolv'd to prescribe,
The fee the chief end of the physical tribe,
With his pills and his potions oblig'd to comply,
She took — yet continued, alas! I shall die.

Brisk Damon, a youth of great natural skill,
As soon as he heard that poor Celia was ill,
With the wings of a lover unto her did fly,
And whisper'd, my dearest, my Celia shan't die.

He press'd, she consented, next day they were wed,
And her checks with their former sweet bloom is o'er spread,
The pleasures of Hymen relumine her eye,
And Celia, thank God, is not likely to die.