In England, in seventeen seventy-five,
Doctor William Withering heard a tale,
Of weak hearts that made the body swell,
With no medicine that made them well,
A Shropshire woman kept a secret brew,
Of twenty herbs or more, all mixed in one,
He studied every leaf and every flower,
And found the foxglove was the one.
The foxglove recipe,
With purple bells so tall,
Withering found the helpful leaf,
Digitalis for the heart,
A pinch too much is poison, though,
So doctors measure small.
He dried the leaves and ground them into powder,
And tried a tiny dose, then waited long,
Too much made patients sick and see things yellow,
So he learned how small the dose must be,
For ten long years he wrote down every case,
Then shared it all in seventeen eighty-five,
His book, An Account of the Foxglove,
Helped doctors keep weak hearts alive.
The foxglove recipe,
Withering found the helpful leaf,
A pinch too much is poison, though,
So doctors measure small.
Some call the foxglove fairy bells,
But never pick them for a snack,
They're medicine, and that is all.
Today, a doctor gives a tiny pill,
Made from the foxglove's careful gift,
It helps a tired heart keep time,
And gives a grandpa's heart a lift.
The foxglove recipe,
With purple bells so tall,
Digitalis for the heart,
So doctors measure small.
The foxglove recipe, so small.
