The Water Of Gold.

"Buy,--who'll buy?" In the market-place,     Out of the market din and clatter,     The quack with his puckered persuasive face     Patters away in the ancient patter.     "Buy,--who'll buy? In this flask I hold--     In this little flask that I tap with my stick, Sir--     Is the famed, infallible Water of Gold,--     The One, Original, True Elixir!     "Buy--who'll buy? There's a maiden there,--     She with the ell-long flaxen tresses,--     Here is a draught that will make you fair,     Fit for an emperor's own caresses!     "Buy,--who'll buy? Are you old and gray?     Drink but of this, and in less than a minute,     Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May,     Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet!     "Buy,--who'll buy? Is a baby ill?     Drop but a drop of this in his throttle,     Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill,     Brisk as a burgher over a bottle!     "Here is wealth for your life,--if you will but ask;     Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion;     Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask;     And the price is a couple of silver groschen!     "Buy,--who'll buy?" So the tale runs on:     And still in the great world's market-places     The Quack, with his quack catholicon,     Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces;     For he plays on our hearts with his pipe and drum,     On our vague regret, on our weary yearning;     For he sells the thing that never can come,     Or the thing that has vanished, past returning.