The Wellington Spa.

A poem by Thomas Moore

"And drink oblivion to our woes."
Anna Matilda.


Talk no more of your Cheltenham and Harrowgate springs,
'Tis from Lethe we now our potations must draw;
Yon Lethe's a cure for--all possible things,
And the doctors have named it the Wellington Spa.

Other physical waters but cure you in part;
One cobbles your gout--t'other mends your digestion--
Some settle your stomach, but this--bless your heart!--
It will settle for ever your Catholic Question.

Unlike too the potions in fashion at present,
This Wellington nostrum, restoring by stealth,
So purges the memory of all that's unpleasant,
That patients forget themselves into rude health.
For instance, the inventor--his having once said
"He should think himself mad if at any one's call,
"He became what he is"--is so purged from his head
That he now doesn’t think he's a madman at all.
Of course, for your memories of very long standing--
Old chronic diseases that date back undaunted
To Brian Boroo and Fitz-Stephens' first landing--
A devil of a dose of the Lethe is wanted.

But even Irish patients can hardly regret
An oblivion so much in their own native style,
So conveniently planned that, whate'er they forget,
They may go on remembering it still all the while!

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