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.