Oh, dear doctor, can you tell,
What will make poor —— well?
She is sick and like to die,
And that will make poor —— cry.
A kiss was the prescription.
We insert this silly little round, chiefly because, according to Madame Celnart, a French equivalent was in favor, not with infants, but ladies and gentlemen in polite society, only half a century since. Our authority says:
"The master or the mistress of this round is called doctor. This doctor takes the arm of the person seated on his right, regards him or her with an eye of compassion, feels his pulse, and then gives his order, which everybody repeats, singing, 'Give me your arm that I may cure you, for you seem to me to look ill.'[80] Then, designating by a glance some person of the other sex, he says, 'Embrace monsieur (or madame) to cure you; it is an excellent remedy.' All the persons in the ring are submitted to this treatment, which the physician knows how to render piquant by the choice of the panacea which he recommends to his patient; when everybody is cured, the doctor passes over his science and dignity to the last person who has tested the efficacy of his prescription, and in his turn falls sick, to make trial of the pleasing remedy."
The general theme of our vulgarized round is more agreeably expressed in the quaint and ancient Canadian song which we have cited as the motto of the present chapter.
No. 37.
Old Grimes.
Old Grimes is dead and in his grave laid,
In his grave, in his grave, in his grave laid—
O aye O!
There grew up an apple-tree over his head—
The apples were ripe and ready to fall—
Then came an old woman a-picking them up—
Old Grimes got up and gave her a kick—
And made her go hobbledy, hobbledy, hip—
The bridles and saddles they hang on the shelf—
And if you want any more you must sing it yourself—
O aye O!
New York streets.