 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
224
WE ARE SEVEN.
I met a doctor rolling up
His wild and fireful eyes,
His lofty brow was clouded o'er
With an impression wise;
Quoth I, “Pray tell me, if you please,
Why roll your eyes to heaven?”
“Alas,” he answered with a sigh,
“It is because we're seven!”
His wild and fireful eyes,
His lofty brow was clouded o'er
With an impression wise;
Quoth I, “Pray tell me, if you please,
Why roll your eyes to heaven?”
“Alas,” he answered with a sigh,
“It is because we're seven!”
There's Bliss and Barnes and Hamilton,
And Agnew, which makes four,
And Woodward, Baxter and myself,
Thank God, there ain't no more!
We've fooled around for forty days,
And yet, so help me heaven,
We haven't done a bit more good
Than if we were not seven!”
And Agnew, which makes four,
And Woodward, Baxter and myself,
Thank God, there ain't no more!
We've fooled around for forty days,
And yet, so help me heaven,
We haven't done a bit more good
Than if we were not seven!”
One says, “It is,” another, “'Taint,”
While I claim it's pyaemia,
And as we dose and fool around,
The outlook's growing dreamier;
And as the nation's pray'rs go up
With one accord, to heaven,
Each doctor has a different scheme,
For we, good sir, are seven.
While I claim it's pyaemia,
And as we dose and fool around,
The outlook's growing dreamier;
And as the nation's pray'rs go up
With one accord, to heaven,
Each doctor has a different scheme,
For we, good sir, are seven.
August 19th, 1881.
| A little book of tribune verse | |