THE DOCTOR.
Who is it drives thru mud and sleet,
At break-neck speed along the street,
Nor stops for cold nor stops for heat,
Until he rests close by your feet?
The Doctor.
Who is it comes at dead of night,
When thieves are out and dogs do bite,
And hastens to the dismal light,
And greets you with a warm good-night?
The Doctor.
Who is it asks the reason why,
That on a sick bed you should lie,
And answers to the sad reply,
“My friend, I will not let you die?”
The Doctor.
Who is it startles in his dream,
And thinks he hears his patient scream,
And gives of life its very cream,
To save you from the downward stream?
The Doctor.
Who is it takes his life in hand,
And promptly comes at your command,
When cholera is in the land,
Or small-pox with its dreaded brand?
The Doctor.
Who is it comes with gentle tread,
When life is hanging by a thread,
And racks the brain within his head,
To lift you from a dying bed?
The Doctor.
Who is it tells the loving friend,
In kindest words that tongue can bend,
All things in nature have an end,
And my poor patient cannot mend?
The Doctor.
Who is it knows our secrets best,
The failing arm, the weakened chest,
And keeps those secrets in his breast.
Until we reach our final rest?
The Doctor.