Part 5
'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 might 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 love-sick, sir!
Napoleon knew a thing or two, And clearly he was partial To doctors, for, in time of war, He chose one for 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 get blamed for!
In modern times the noble rhymes Of Holmes (a great physician!) Have solace brought and wisdom taught To hearts of all conditions. 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.
BEN APFELGARTEN.
There was a certain gentleman, Ben Apfelgarten called, Who lived way off in Germany a many years ago, And he was very fortunate in being very bald, And so was very happy he was so. He warbled all the day Such songs as only they Who are very, very circumspect and very happy may; The people wondered why, As the years went grinding by, They never heard him once complain or even heave a sigh!
The women of the province fell in love with genial Ben, Till (maybe you can fancy it) the dickens was to pay Among the callow students and the sober-minded men-- With the women folk a-cuttin' up that way! Why, they gave him turbans red To adorn his hairless head, And knitted jaunty nightcaps to protect him when abed! In vain the rest demurred-- Not a single chiding word Those ladies deigned to tolerate--remonstrance was absurd!
Things finally got into such a very dreadful way That the others (oh, how artful!) formed the politic design To send him to the reichstag; so, one dull November day They elected him a member from the Rhine! Then the other members said: "Gott in Himmel; what a head!" But they marveled when his speeches they listened to or read; And presently they cried: "There must be heaps inside Of the smooth and shiny cranium his constituents deride!"
Well, when at last he up 'nd died--long past his ninetieth year-- The strangest and the most luguberous funeral he had, For women came in multitudes to weep upon his bier-- The men all wond'ring why on earth the women had gone mad! And this wonderment increased, Till the sympathetic priest Inquired of those same ladies: "Why this fuss about deceased?" Whereupon they were appalled, For, as one, those women squalled: "We doted on deceased for being bald--bald--bald!"
He was bald because his genius burnt that shock of hair away, Which, elsewise, clogs one's keenness and activity of mind, And (barring present company, of course,) I'm free to say That, after all, it's intellect that captures woman-kind. At any rate, since then (With a precedent in Ben), The women-folk have been in love with us bald-headed men!
IN HOLLAND.
Our course lay up a smooth canal Through tracks of velvet green, And through the shade that windmills made, And pasture lands between. The kine had canvas on their backs To temper Autumn's spite, And everywhere there was an air Of comfort and delight.
My wife, dear philosophic soul! Saw here whereof to prate: "Vain fools are we across the sea To boast our nobler state! Go north or south or east or west, Or wheresoever you please, You shall not find what's here combined-- Equality and ease!
"How tidy are these honest homes In every part and nook-- The men folk wear a prosperous air, The women happy look. Seeing the peace that smiles around, I would our land was such-- Think as you may, I'm free to say I would we were the Dutch!"
Just then we overtook a boat (The Golden Tulip hight)-- Big with the weight of motley freight, It was a goodly sight! Meynheer van Blarcom sat on deck, With pipe in lordly pose, And with his son of twenty-one He played at dominoes.
Then quoth my wife: "How fair to see This sturdy, honest man Beguile all pain and lust of gain With whatso joys he can; Methinks his spouse is down below Beading a kerchief gay-- A babe, mayhap, lolls in her lap In the good old Milky way.
"Where in the land from whence we came Is there content like this-- Where such disdain of sordid gain, Such sweet domestic bliss? A homespun woman I, this land Delights me overmuch-- Think as you will and argue still, I like the honest Dutch."
And then my wife made end of speech-- Her voice stuck in her throat, For, swinging around the turn, we found What motor moved the boat; Hitched up in tow-path harness there Was neither horse nor cow, But the buxom frame of a Hollandische dame-- Meynheer van Blarcom's frau.
Transcriber's Notes:
Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as follows:
Page 6: "Japan" changed to "Spain" Page 85: "you re" changed to "you're" Page 101: comma added after "spiders" Page 113: ' changed to " before "Let" Page 157: "the" changed to "they"