DOCTORS

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 school-boy'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.

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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 song 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.

BARBARA

BARBARA

BLITHE was the youth that summer day
As he smote at the ribs of earth,
And he plied his pick with a merry click,
And he whistled anon in mirth;

And the constant thought of his dear one's face
Seemed to illumine that ghostly place.

The gaunt earth envied the lover's joy,

And she moved, and closed on his head:. With no one nigh and with never a cry

The beautiful boy lay dead;

And the treasure he sought for his sweetheart fair Crumbled, and clung to his glorious hair.

Fifty years is a mighty space

In the human toil for bread;

But to Love and to Death 't is merely a breath,

A dream that is quickly sped,

Fifty years, and the fair lad lay
Just as he fell that summer day.

At last came others in quest of gold,

And hewed in that mountain place;
And deep in the ground one time they found
The boy with the smiling face:

All uncorrupt by the pitiless air,
He lay, with his crown of golden hair.

They bore him up to the sun again,

And laid him beside the brook,

And the folk came down from the busy town
To wonder and prate and look;

And so, to a world that knew him not,
The boy came back to the old-time spot.

Old Barbara hobbled among the rest,-
Wrinkled and bowed was she,-

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And she gave a cry, as she fared anigh,

"At last he is come to me!"

And she kneeled by the side of the dead boy there, And she kissed his lips, and she stroked his hair.

"Thine eyes are sealed, O dearest one!

And better it is 't is so,

Else thou might 'st see how harsh with me
Dealt Life thou couldst not know.
Kindlier Death has kept thee fair;
The sorrow of Life hath been my

Barbara bowed her aged face,

share."

And fell on the breast of her dead;
And the golden hair of her dear one there
Caressed her snow-white head.

Oh, Life is sweet, with its touch of pain;
But sweeter the Death that joined those twain.

THE CAFÉ MOLINEAU

THE Café Molineau is where

A dainty little minx

Serves God and men as best she can

By serving meats and drinks.

Oh, such an air the creature has,

And such a pretty face!

I took delight that autumn night
In hanging round the place.

I know but very little French

(I have not long been here);
But when she spoke, her meaning broke

Full sweetly on my ear.

Then, too, she seemed to understand

Whatever I'd to say,

Though most I knew was "oony poo,"

"Bong zhoor," and "see voo play."

HOLLY AND IVY

The female wit is always quick,

And of all womankind

"T is here in France that you, perchance,
The keenest wits shall find;

And here you'll find that subtle gift,
That rare, distinctive touch,
Combined with grace of form and face,
That glads men overmuch.

"Our girls at home," I mused aloud,
"Lack either that or this;
They don't combine the arts divine
As does the Gallic miss.
Far be it from me to malign

Our belles across the sea,

And yet I'll swear none can compare
With this ideal She."

And then I praised her dainty foot
In very awful French,

And parleywood in guileful mood

Until the saucy wench

Tossed back her haughty auburn head,
And froze me with disdain:

"There are on me no flies," said she,
"For I come from Bangor, Maine!"

HOLLY AND IVY

HOLLY standeth in ye house

When that Noel draweth near;

Evermore at ye door

Standeth Ivy, shivering sore

In ye night wind bleak and drear;

And, as weary hours go by,
Doth ye one to other cry.

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