O is it with pills, or senna and salts, your 'shake up the bottle' and mess
Of slops, to avenge for the deed I've done? have mercy and I'll confess!
O pester me not to swallow your stuff, I will not allow you to bleed!
O spare me Tommins, I'm guilty, guilt, is what I'm about to plead!"
The doctor shrank with a searching gaze, that clung to the startled ghost,
In doubt awhile, for the rounded lines of his manhood's prime were lost,
Till memory striking the evil past, the doctor's eye did trace,
With a shock to his heart, the Writ MacFee of the most remarkable case!
His memory jarred on the Probate Court, with all its sorrowful shame,
Disastrous check, to his early hopes, of honor, and medical fame,