 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
DOCTOR B.
(ON RE-READING A COLLECTION OF POEMS.)
Confound your croakers and drug concoctors!
I've sent them packing at last, you see!
I'm in the hands of the best of doctors,
Dear cheery and chirpy Doctor B.!
I've sent them packing at last, you see!
I'm in the hands of the best of doctors,
Dear cheery and chirpy Doctor B.!
None of your moping, methodistic,
Long-faced ravens who frighten a man!
No, ever with treatment optimistic
To rouse the sick, is the Doctor's plan!
Long-faced ravens who frighten a man!
No, ever with treatment optimistic
To rouse the sick, is the Doctor's plan!
In he comes to you, smiling brightly,
Feels your pulse for the mere form's sake,
Bustles about the sick room lightly.
Gives you no beastly drugs to take,
Feels your pulse for the mere form's sake,
Bustles about the sick room lightly.
Gives you no beastly drugs to take,
395
But blithely clapping you on the shoulder
‘Better?’ he cries. ‘Why, you're nearly well!’
And then you hear, with a heart grown bolder,
The last good story he has to tell!
‘Better?’ he cries. ‘Why, you're nearly well!’
And then you hear, with a heart grown bolder,
The last good story he has to tell!
And, mind you, his learning is prodigious,
He has Latin and Greek at his finger ends,
And with all his knowledge he's still religious,
And counts no sceptic among his friends.
He has Latin and Greek at his finger ends,
And with all his knowledge he's still religious,
And counts no sceptic among his friends.
God's in His Heaven, and willy nilly
All things come right in the end, he shows—
The rouge on the ladies of Piccadilly
Is God's, as much as the blush of the rose!
All things come right in the end, he shows—
The rouge on the ladies of Piccadilly
Is God's, as much as the blush of the rose!
And as for the wail of the whole world's sorrow,
Well, men may weep, but the thrushes sing!
If you're sick to-day, there'll be jinks tomorrow,
And life, on the whole, is a pleasant thing!
Well, men may weep, but the thrushes sing!
If you're sick to-day, there'll be jinks tomorrow,
And life, on the whole, is a pleasant thing!
When out of spirits you're sadly lying,
All dismal talk he puts bravely by:
‘God's in His Heaven,’ you hear him crying,—
‘All's right with Creation from star to sty!’
All dismal talk he puts bravely by:
‘God's in His Heaven,’ you hear him crying,—
‘All's right with Creation from star to sty!’
Full of world's wisdom and life's variety,
Always alive and alert is he,
His patients move in the best society,
And Duchesses swear by Doctor B.!
Always alive and alert is he,
His patients move in the best society,
And Duchesses swear by Doctor B.!
A bit too chirpy to some folks' thinking?
Well, there are moods that he hardly suits!—
Once, last summer, when I felt sinking,
I fear'd his voice and the creak of his boots!
Well, there are moods that he hardly suits!—
Once, last summer, when I felt sinking,
I fear'd his voice and the creak of his boots!
It he has a fault which there's no denying,
Tis proneness to argue and prove his case,—
When under the shadow a man is lying,
Such boisterous comfort seems out of place;
Tis proneness to argue and prove his case,—
When under the shadow a man is lying,
Such boisterous comfort seems out of place;
'Tis little solace, when one is going
Into the long eternal Night,
To hear a voice, like a bugle blowing,
Cry, ‘Glory to God, for the world's all right!’
Into the long eternal Night,
To hear a voice, like a bugle blowing,
Cry, ‘Glory to God, for the world's all right!’
I long'd, I own, for a voice less cheery,
A style less strident, a tone less frce,—
For one who'd bend by my bedside dreary
And hush his wisdom and weep with me!
A style less strident, a tone less frce,—
For one who'd bend by my bedside dreary
And hush his wisdom and weep with me!
But bless your heart, when my health grew better,
I gladden'd the old boy's face to see;
And still I consider myself the debtor
Of dear old chirpy Doctor B.!
I gladden'd the old boy's face to see;
And still I consider myself the debtor
Of dear old chirpy Doctor B.!
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |