The Ballad of the Alchemist
A wily alchemist there was—in Britain, so I hear—
Who dabbled in the arcane arts throughout the livelong year.
Apprenticed by a clot whose brain was small for one so old,
The alchemist did labor lone to transmute lead to gold.
It chanced, betimes (it always must), there came a buxom maid
Whose beauty caused the flowers of spring from jealousy to fade.
When ere she passed, like autumn leaves, young men did swooning fall,
Bu the alchemist her pulchritude affected most of all.
“Philosopher’s Stone, be damned,” vowed he, “I’ll search for you no more.”
Erect in lust to have the lass, he paced about the floor.
The apprentice he did summon in. They worked by candlelight
To find the spell to force the girl to come to him that night.
At last the alchemist had found the proper remedy,
Set about to homogenize the potion carefully.
“But ‘zounds,” he dried, “it’s not complete!” His face fell in despair.
“The spell demands a portion of her precious maidenhair.”
Straightway the apprentice he dispatched to fill the recipe.
“Now hurry where she sleeps and deftly clip a hair or three.”
But the apprentice was a lazy lout; besides, he had no brow.
He went instead into a barn and gently clipped a cow.
He ambled to the alchemist with bovine tuft held high.
The alchemist then seized it from his hand with joyful cry
And threw it in his mortar, gave his pestle quite a whirl,
Recited all the magic words sure now to bring the girl.
Today the maid is lovely still; her virtue is intact.
The apprentice simply disappeared, and none has felt his lack.
The alchemist still practices, but cannot make a move
Except accompanied by a cow, her brown eyes glazed with love.