When the clay lies at your feet, Yet this thought remains with him, Truth of doom or bliss supernal, So we 'll leave him, ready now Of our wayward wild conjecture. It may be our fate to die All unwept and missed by no menAs he lies there we may lie; ABSIT OMEN. -H. SAVILE Clarke. The Joking Doctor KNEW a doctor years ago, Aged forty, fat, and ruddy, Who made of puns, both high and low, A most important study. To men who fasted for a day, Whose lungs were but presumption, He'd say in a most joyous way, "How great is your consumption!" THE JOKING DOCTOR And added that in many ways, His heart was sympathetic, And how his skill brought forth more praise, When called upon to use his power, And if some sighed "the room needs air," He'd smile, and gently say, "forbear, My daughter Annie, on the stoop, This doctor came, and said “it 's croup, And when I asked him, "shall I die." He muttered "yes," with one closed eye, And thus for many, many years, This creature has been stunning Thousands of helpless, suffering ears, By his atrocious punning. But I will have my joke on him, Altho' to me 't is trying; For sometime back I 've felt quite slim, He told me I was dying. His bill since last July is due, And it will make him holler To find (I tell this ENTRE NOUS), I have n't left a dollar! -FRANCIS SALTUS SALTUS. 67 Guneopathy SAW a lady yesterday, A regular M. D., Who 'd taken from the Faculty And I thought, if ever I was sick, I pity the deluded man Who foolishly consults I had a strange disorder once, I don't know what they called it in their pompous terms of Art, Nor if they thought it mortal In such a vital part, I only know 't was reckoned "Something icy round the heart!" A lady came, her presence brought She took my hand-and something like Great Galen!-I was all aglow, Though I'd been cold for years! DOCTOR GALL Perhaps it is n't every case I fervently beseech That I may have, for life or death, A lady for my "leech"! -JOHN GODFREY SAXE. Doctor Gall SING of the organs and fibers That ramble about in the brains; Or stay and be wise for your pains. One could not tell clever from dull, Till I, like Le Sage's lame devil, Unroofed with a touch every skull. Oh, I am the mental dissector, I fathom the wits of you all, The passions, or active or passive, As busy as bees in a glass hive, Are seen in their separate cells. Old Momus, who wanted a casement Whence all in the heart might be read, Were he living, would stare with amazement There's an organ for strains amoroso, 69 An organ for boxers, for stoics, I raise in match-making a rumpus, "Dear Madam, your eyebrow is horrid; When practice has made my book plainer In London a palace of truth. Your friend brings a play out at Drury, 'Tis hooted and damned in the pit; Your organ of friendship's all fury, But what says your organ of wit? "Our laughter next time prithee stir, man, We don't pay our money to weep; Your play must have come from the German, It set all the boxes asleep." At first, all will be in a bustle; The eye will, from ignorance, swerve, And some will abuse the wrong muscle, And some will adore the wrong nerve. In love should your hearts then be sporting, Your heads on one level to bring, You must go in your nightcaps a-courting, As if you were going to swing. |