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MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY: THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Reader, were you ever bewitched? - I do not mean
Last Line: Characters which compose the name of thomas %marsh, of marston
Alternate Author Name(s): Ingoldsby, Thomas


In Folkestone town, not long ago,
A wight there was, and his name, Joe;
A boon companion, blithe and gay,
Was Joe; but he was led astray
By Nance, a witching syren, who
Wove snares for this light-hearted screw.
One day he took a morning stroll,
And drank at every barber's bowl;
In fact, he guzzled far too much,
And this, you'll say, was out of clutch.
But men will do such things, they say,
And Joe was one of that stamp, they say.
Down to the well his way he wended,
And stooped to drink ere he had ended
The last new song, which Master Brown
Had brought from London town.
But as he drank, a something crept
Athwart his throat, and down he leapt.
Now, as it happened, there were there
Some folks who did not much care
For Joe, and so they left him there.
A change came o'er his aspect soon,
His cheeks assumed a bilious hue;
His eyes grew dim, his pulse beat quick,
His limbs refused their wonted kick;
And all exclaimed, when they him saw,
Joe's very ill! - he's got the flaw!
He raved and swore, he laughed and wept,
He hiccoughed, and he sobbed, and slept;
And then he woke, and then he sighed,
And then he groaned, and then he cried,
And then he shrieked, and then he sipped,
And then he took another whiff.
Now, every hour, the gurgling sound
Of water at his heart-strings round,
Warned Joe, with many a boding groan,
Of something he had never known;
While, spite of all his doctor's skill,
The leech within grew louder still.
Cut for the stone, at length they cried,
As poor Joe gasped, and groaned, and died;
But when, upon the post-mortem
Search, his inside they did come at,
They found - Good Lord! - what do you think?
Why, a great long gutta percha link,
A yard of oil-cloth, and, to crown all,
A quart or so of gravel and small.
The fact was this, the morning Joe
Drank at the well I've told you of,
A party there had washed, that night,
Some pieces of their linen white,
Which, hung to dry upon a line,
Joe mistook for the purest brine.
And hence, the grave and learned debate
On what was come at in his pate.
Some held that he had got the blues,
And others, that he'd read the news;
While others swore, with solemn tone,
It was the liquor did the drone.
But Mrs. Botherby took her oath
That there were leeches in the cloth;
And these, she said, had found their way
To Joe's interior next day.
So, let us take a warning due,
And never do as Joe did do;
But always carefully inquire
If water, when we drink, is clear;
And, next, beware of linen white,
Lest, mixed with brine, it bring - despite
All caution - graver ills to light
Than ever Joe was plagued with quite.








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