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Marshal Saxe and His Physician

EVER 'S a most audacious varlet ;

Now in a general's face he shakes His all-defying fist, and makes His visage like his jacket-scarlet; Now o'er surrounding guards he throws A summerset, and never squeaks "An' please your Majesty," but tweaks The Lord's anointed by the nose.

With his inflammatory finger,

(Much like the heater of an urn)

He makes the pulses boil and burn, Puts fur upon the tongue, (not ermine,) And leaves his prey to die or linger,

Just as the doctors may determine.

Though this disorder sometimes seems
Mild and benignant,

It interferes so with our schemes,
Imparting to our heads a dizziness,

Just when we want them clear for business,
That it may well be termed malignant.

Of these inopportune attacks,

One fiercely fell on Marshal Saxe,

Just as his troops had opened trenches
Before a fortress; (what a pity!)
Not only did it make his heart ache
To be condemned to pill, cathartic,
Bolus, and blister, drugs and drenches,
But shocked his military notions,
To make him take unwished-for potions,

Instead of taking, as he wished-the city.

Senac, however, his physician,
Soon gave our invalid permission

To be coached out an easy distance

First stipulating one condition-
That whatsoe'er the when and where,

The Doctor should be then and there,
Lest any syncope, relapse,

Or other unforseen mishaps,

Should call for medical assistance.

Saxe gives consent with all his heart,
Orders the carriage in a minute,

Whispers the coachman-mounts within it,
Senac the same, and off they start,
Joking, smiling, time beguiling,

In a facetious tête-à-tête.-
The subject of their mutual chatter is
Nothing to us;-enough to state
That Marshal Saxe at length got out
To reconnoitre a redoubt,

Projecting from a range of batteries.

Left in the carriage, our physician,
By no means relished his position,
When he discovered they had got
Nearly within half cannon shot;

Wherefore he bawled, with fear half melted,

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For God's sake move me from this spot!Doubtless they've noticed our approach,

And, when they recognize your coach,

Shan't I be fired at, peppered, pelted,

(When I can neither fly nor hide)

From some of yonder bristling masses?"

"It's not unlikely," Saxe replied;

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And war I know is not your trade,

So if you feel the least afraid,

Pull up the glasses!"

-HORACE SMITH.

A Quandary

DO NOT know your Doctor Holmes;

What has he published?" asks my friend, M. D. "What is his specialty?"

46

Ah, yes, of course," say I,

"Most surely, why,

He's written tomes and tomes

On Snakes and Teas-and Breakfasts, don't you know?"

Oh!" says my friend, "Yes, Oh! No doubt some dietetic treatises,

With alcohol for target. These it is."

"Nay that is not the kind of evils

The doctor deals with; he prescribes
A tonic for the mind,

To cure blue devils,

With frequent diatribes

On man and womankind."

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Humph! A mind-cure fanatic," says M. D.

"Excuse me, if you please,

I'll none of him." With that, you see,

He left me blinking;

And now, here seated in my study at my ease,

I'm quietly thinking.

Pray, doctor, answer me a word;

Shakespeare and Keats, 't is true,

Are thy familiars. Hast thou haply heard,

Pardon the question,-of one Dr. Tait?

Canst thou expatiate

On Dr. Lister's antiseptics?

Or prate of blisters and the skeptics,

The modern crew

Who hold the modern view?

Thy honest pardon grant,

Dear doctor, for 't is so I ask it thee;

Thy sturdy blows

For reason against cant

In followers of every "opathy"

All the world knows

(All save M. D.).

Now when, for various ills,

I take my pills,

Or squills,

Or ipecac, or gall,

I know 't is thou hast made my dose so small,

Not doubting Nature will perform her share

The breaches to repair.

That thou art learned in the lore

Of thy profession

I make thee full confession.

Only, when questioned by M. D.,

I quite forgot,

In my confusions,

Thy Homeopathy

And Like Delusions";

And recollected not

Thy "Currents" and thy" Border Lines";

Though all thy verse

My memory could rehearse

And many a tale came back by good, sure signs.

Therefore, I ask thy pardon here,

With heart sincere;

And then, too, as I write,

Thy good physicians from thy volumes rise

And chide me for despite.

Than they are scarce more wise

The great" Professor" and the "Autocrat.

Yet, for all that,

I boldly dare affirm,

Not Koch, nor Gross, nor Fritzsch,

Hitzig, nor Sims, nor Brown-Séquard,

Bacillic germ,

The itch!

Transfusion, nor old Dr. Jenner's scar,

Holds thee in thrall

Like those fair theories of good John Brown

Thy prototype in Scottish garb

On dogs and human fry.

Pray, in thy list of volumes medical,

Which dost thou most take down?
Which most attracts thine eye?

How rank'st thou " Marjorie "?
And how dear "Rab"?

In one word, understand,

Lie they not dogs-eared on thine ESCRITOIRE,
While Virchow is no more

Than honored with a station near thy hand?

Ah, scribbling doctor, mine,

What better could a bard inherit

Than thy pen's power?

What could a healer do one-half so fine

As bear thy cheerful, kindly spirit

Where Pain rules his dark hour?

-GEORGE Herbert StockbrIDGE.

The Doctor's Hard Case

U

FROM AMEDEE LATOUR.

NSUCCESSFUL, full of learning,

He will die for want of bread,

li successful, full of earning,

He will die of work instead.

-WILLIAM E. A. AXON.

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