OLD DOCTOR MACK
| Ye may tramp the
world over from Delhi to Dover, And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon; Circumvint back through the whole Zodiack, But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon. Have ye the dropsy, the gout, the autopsy? Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez; No way infarior in skill, but suparior And lineal postarior to ould Aysculapius. Chorus: He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye and complexion clarety; Here's to his health, Honour and wealth, The king of his kind and the cream of all charity. How the rich and the poor, to consult for a cure, Crowd on to his door in their carts and their carriages, Showin' their tongues or unlacin' their lungs, For divel wan sympton the docther disparages, Troth an' he'll tumble for high or for humble From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety; Makin' as light of nursin' all night The beggar in rags as the belle of society. Chorus: He and his wig wid the curls, etc. And, as if by a meracle, ailments hysterical, Dad, wid one dose of bread pills he can smother, And quench the love sickness wid comical quickness, Prescribin' the right boys and girls to each other. And the sufferin' childer! Your eyes 'twould bewilder, To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin'— Each of them fast on some treasure at last, Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'. Chorus: He and his wig wid the curls, etc. [140] Thin, his doctherin' done, in a rollickin' run Wid the rod or the gun he's the foremost to figure; Be Jupiter Ammon! what jack-snipe or salmon E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger! And hark that view-holloa! 'Tis Mack in full follow On black "Faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'! Och, but you'd think 'twas ould Nimrod in pink, Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park wall and palin'. Chorus: He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye and complexion clarety. Here's to his health, Honour and wealth, Hip, hip, hooray, wid all hilarity! Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way! All at once widout disparity! One more cheer for our docther dear, The king of his kind and the cream of all charity, Hip, hip, hooray! |
TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN OWEN
HARLECH CHOIRMASTER
| Who is this they
bear along the street In his coffin through the sunshine sweet? Who is this so many comrades crave, Turn by turn, to carry to the grave? Who is this for whom the hillward track Glooms with mounting lines of mourners black? Till the Baptists' green old burial-ground Clasps them all within its quiet bound. Here John Owen we must lay to rest, 'Tis for him our hearts are sore distressed; Since his sister wistfully he eyed, Bowed his head upon her breast and died. Well and truly at his work he wrought; Every Harlech road to order brought; Then through winter evenings dark and long At the chapel gave his heart to song. Till before his gesture of command— Till before his hushing voice and hand— Sweeter, fuller strains who could desire Than he charmed from out his Baptist choir. Many a time the passer-by enchained By their rapture to its close remained, And the churches joyfully agreed Their united choirs his skill should lead. So in Handel's choruses sublime He would train them for the Christmas time; Mould their measures for the concert hall, Roll their thunders round the Castle wall. [142] Loving husband, tender father, quick To console the suffering and sick— Christ to follow was his constant aim, Christ's own deacon ere he bore the name. Widowed wife and children fatherless, Stricken kinsfolk, friends in keen distress— Sorrow swept them all beneath its wave As his coffin sank into the grave. But his Pastor's fervent voice went forth, Delicately dwelling on his worth, Urging his example, till at last Heavenly comfort o'er our grief he cast. For his lonely ones we bowed in prayer, Sighed one hymn, and left him lying there, Whispering: "Lord, Thy will be done to-day, Thou didst give him, Thou hast taken away." |