DOCTORS.

‘ Tis quite the thing to say and sing

Gross libels on the doctor,—

To picture him an ogre grim

Or humbug-pill concocter;

Yet it's in quite another light

My friendly pen would show him,

Glad that it may with verse repay

Some part of what I owe him.

When one's all right, he's prone to spite

The doctor's peaceful mission;

But when he's sick, it's loud and quick

He bawls for a physician.

With other things, the doctor brings

Sweet babes, our hearts to soften:

Though I have four, I pine for more,—

Good doctor, pray come often!

What though he sees death and disease

Run riot all around him?

Patient and true, and valorous too,

Such have I always found him.

Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes;

And when skill's unavailing,

And death is near, his words of cheer

Support our courage failing.

In ancient days they used to praise

The godlike art of healing,—

An art that then engaged all men

Possessed of sense and feeling.

Why, Raleigh, he was glad to be

Famed for a quack elixir;

And Digby sold, as we are told,

A charm for folk lovesick, sir.

Napoleon knew a thing or two,

And clearly he was partial

To doctors, for in time of war

He chose one for a marshal.

In our great cause a doctor was

The first to pass death's portal,

And Warren's name at once became

A beacon and immortal.

A heap, indeed, of what we read

By doctors is provided;

For to those groves Apollo loves

Their leaning is decided.

Deny who may that Rabelais

Is first in wit and learning,

And yet all smile and marvel while

His brilliant leaves they're turning.

How Lever's pen has charmed all men!

How touching Rab's short story!

And I will stake my all that Drake

Is still the schoolboy's glory.

A doctor-man it was began

Great Britain's great museum,—

The treasures there are all so rare

It drives me wild to see‘ em!

There's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush; they are

Big monuments to learning.

To Mitchell's prose ( how smooth it flows! )

We all are fondly turning.

Tomes might be writ of that keen wit

Which Abernethy's famed for;

With bread-crumb pills he cured the ills

Most doctors now get blamed for.

In modern times the noble rhymes

Of Holmes, a great physician,

Have solace brought and wisdom taught

To hearts of all condition.

The sailor, bound for Puget Sound,

Finds pleasure still unfailing,

If he but troll the barcarole

Old Osborne wrote on Whaling.

If there were need, I could proceed

Ad naus. with this prescription,

But, inter nos, a larger dose

Might give you fits conniption;

Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friend

I'd hold before these others,

For he and I in years gone by

Have chummed around like brothers.

Together we have sung in glee

The songs old Horace made for

Our genial craft, together quaffed

What bowls that doctor paid for!

I love the rest, but love him best;

And, were not times so pressing,

I'd buy and send — you smile, old friend?

Well, then, here goes my blessing.