To work like a slave for a weary year, and then to be cursed when I send my bills!

Upon my honor, we 're not too hard on those who cannot afford

to pay.

For nothing I've cured the widow and child, for nothing I've watched till the night turned day;

I've earned the prayers of the poor, thank God, and I 've borne the sneers of the pampered beast,

I've heard confessions and kept them safe as a sacred trust like a righteous priest.

To do my duty I never have sworn, as others must do in this world of woe,

But I've driven away to the bed of pain, through days of rain, through nights of snow.

As here I sit and I smoke my pipe, when the day is done and the wife's asleep,

I think of that brother-m-arms who's gone, and utter-well something loud and deep!

And I read the Journal and I fling it down, and I fancy I hear in the night that scream,

Of a woman who's crying for vengeance! Hark! no, the house is still! It's a doctor's dream!

-ANONYMOUS.

I

The Doctor

N love he practiced, and in patience taught,
The sacred art that battles with disease;
Nor stained by one disloyal act or thought,
The holy symbol of Hippocrates.

--ANONYMOUS

Lines to a Skeleton

B

EHOLD this ruin! 'twas a skull,
Once of etheral spirit full;

This narrow cell was life's retreat,

This space was thought's mysterious seat.

What beauteous visions filled this spot!
What dreams of pleasure long forgot!
Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear,
Has left one trace of record here.

Beneath this mouldering canopy,
Once shone the bright and busy eye;
But start not at the dismal void-
If social love that eye employed,

If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dew of kindness beamed,
That eye shall be forever bright,

When stars and sun have lost their light.

Here, in this silent cavern, hung

The ready, swift and tuneful tongue;

If falsehood's honey it disdained,

And, where it could not praise, was chained,

If bold in virtue's cause it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke ;

That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee,

When death unvails eternity.

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,

Or with it's envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock or wear the gem
Can nothing now avail to them.
But if the page of truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,

These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that waits on wealth or fame.

Avails it, whether bare or shod,
These feet the path of duty trod?
If from the bowers of joy they fled
To sooth affliction's humble bed;
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to virtue's lap returned,
These feet with angel's wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky.

-ANONYMOUS.

Doctor Drollhead's Cure

HREE weeks to a day had old Doctor Drollhead
Attended to Miss Debby Keepill;

Three weeks to a day had she lain in her bed
Defying his marvelous skill.

She put out her tongue for the twenty-first time,
But it looked very much as it should;

Her pulse with the doctor's scarce failed of a rhyme,
As a matter of course, it was good.

Today has this gentleman happened to see-
Very strange he's not done it before-

That the way to recovery simply must be

Right out of this same chamber door.

So he said, "Leave your bed, dear Miss Keepill, I pray ;
Keep the powders and pills, if you must,
But the color of health will not long stay away
If you exercise freely, I trust."

"Why, doctor! of all things, when I am so weak
That scarce from my bed can I stir,

Of color and exercise thus will you speak?
Of what ARE you thinking, dear sir?"

“That a fright is the cure, my good lady, for you,”
He said to himself and the wall,

And to frighten her, what did the good doctor do,
But to jump into bed, boots and all.

And as in jumped he, why then out jumped she,
Like a hare, except for the pother,

And shockingly shocked, pray who wouldn't be ?
Ran, red as as a rose, to her mother.

Doctor Drollhead, meanwhile, is happily sure,
Debby owes a long life just to him;

And vows he's discovered a capital cure
For the bedrid when tied by a whim.

At any rate, long, long ago this occurred,
And Debby is not with the dead;

But in pretty good health, 't may be gently inferred,
Since she makes all the family bread.

Ould Docther Mack

-ANONYMOUS.

E may tramp the world over

From Delhi to Dover,

And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon,
Circumvint back

Through the whole Zodiack,

But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon.

Have ye the dropsy,

The gout, the autopsy?

Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he 'll shape yez;

No ways infarior

In skill, but suparior,

And lineal postarior of Ould Aysculapious;

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye and complexion clarety:

Here's to his health,

Honor and wealth,

The king of his kind and the crame of all charity!

How the rich and the poor,

To consult for a cure,

Crowd on to his doore in their carts and their carriages, Shown' their tongues

Or unlacin' their lungs,

For divle one symptom the docther disparages.
Troth, and he'll tumble

For high or humble

From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety; Makin' as light

Of nursin' all-night

The beggar in rags as the belle of society.

And as if by meracle,

Ailments hysterical,

Dad, wid one dose of bread-pills he can smother,
And quench the love-sickness

Wid wonderful quickness,

By prescribin' the right boys and girls to aich other.
And the sufferin' childer-

Your eyes 'twould bewilder

To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin',
And aich of them fast

On some treasure at last,

Well known' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'.

Then, his doctherin' done,

In a rollickin' run

Wid the rod or the gun, he's the foremost to figure,

By Jupiter Ammon,

What Jack-snipe or salmon

E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger!

And hark! the view-hollo!

'Tis Mack in full follow

On black Faugh-a-ballagh the country-side sailin'.

Och, but you'd think.

'Twas ould Nimrod in pink,

Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park-wall and palin'.