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For gastric griefs and peristaltic woes.

      What jack-o'-lantern led him from his way,

       And where it led him, it were hard to say;

       Enough that wandering many a weary mile

       Through paths the mountain sheep trod single file,

       O'ercome by feelings such as patients know

       Who dose too freely with "Elixir Pro.,"

       He tumbl—dismounted, slightly in a heap,

       And lay, promiscuous, lapped in balmy sleep.

      Night followed night, and day succeeded day,

       But snoring still the slumbering Doctor lay.

       Poor Dobbin, starving, thought upon his stall,

       And straggled homeward, saddle-bags and all.

       The village people hunted all around,

       But Rip was missing—never could be found.

       "Drownded," they guessed;—for more than half a year

       The pouts and eels did taste uncommon queer;

       Some said of apple-brandy—other some

       Found a strong flavor of New England rum.

      Why can't a fellow hear the fine things said

       About a fellow when a fellow's dead?

       The best of doctors—so the press declared—

       A public blessing while his life was spared,

       True to his country, bounteous to the poor,

       In all things temperate, sober, just, and pure;

       The best of husbands! echoed Mrs. Van,

       And set her cap to catch another man.

      So ends this Canto—if it's quantum suff.,

       We'll just stop here and say we've had enough,

       And leave poor Rip to sleep for thirty years;

       I grind the organ—if you lend your ears

       To hear my second Canto, after that

       We 'll send around the monkey with the hat.

      CANTO SECOND

      So thirty years had passed—but not a word

       In all that time of Rip was ever heard;

       The world wagged on—it never does go back—

       The widow Van was now the widow Mac——

       France was an Empire—Andrew J. was dead,

       And Abraham L. was reigning in his stead.

       Four murderous years had passed in savage strife,

       Yet still the rebel held his bloody knife.

      —At last one morning—who forgets the day

       When the black cloud of war dissolved away

       The joyous tidings spread o'er land and sea,

       Rebellion done for! Grant has captured Lee!

       Up every flagstaff sprang the Stars and Stripes—

       Out rushed the Extras wild with mammoth types—

       Down went the laborer's hod, the school-boy's book—

       "Hooraw!" he cried, "the rebel army's took!"

       Ah! what a time! the folks all mad with joy

       Each fond, pale mother thinking of her boy;

       Old gray-haired fathers meeting—"Have—you—heard?"

       And then a choke—and not another word;

       Sisters all smiling—maidens, not less dear,

       In trembling poise between a smile and tear;

       Poor Bridget thinking how she 'll stuff the plums

       In that big cake for Johnny when he comes;

       Cripples afoot; rheumatics on the jump;

       Old girls so loving they could hug the pump;

       Guns going bang! from every fort and ship;

       They banged so loud at last they wakened Rip.

      I spare the picture, how a man appears

       Who's been asleep a score or two of years;

       You all have seen it to perfection done

       By Joe Van Wink—I mean Rip Jefferson.

       Well, so it was; old Rip at last came back,

       Claimed his old wife—the present widow Mac——

       Had his old sign regilded, and began

       To practise physic on the same old plan.

       Some weeks went by—it was not long to wait—

       And "please to call" grew frequent on the slate.

       He had, in fact, an ancient, mildewed air,

       A long gray beard, a plenteous lack of hair—

       The musty look that always recommends

       Your good old Doctor to his ailing friends.

      —Talk of your science! after all is said

       There's nothing like a bare and shiny head;

       Age lends the graces that are sure to please;

       Folks want their Doctors mouldy, like their cheese.

      So Rip began to look at people's tongues

       And thump their briskets (called it "sound their lungs"),

       Brushed up his knowledge smartly as he could,

       Read in old Cullen and in Doctor Good.

       The town was healthy; for a month or two

       He gave the sexton little work to do.

      About the time when dog-day heats begin,

       The summer's usual maladies set in;

       With autumn evenings dysentery came,

       And dusky typhoid lit his smouldering flame;

       The blacksmith ailed, the carpenter was down,

       And half the children sickened in the town.

       The sexton's face grew shorter than before—

       The sexton's wife a brand-new bonnet wore—

       Things looked quite serious—Death had got a grip

       On old and young, in spite of Doctor Rip.

      And now the Squire was taken with a chill—

       Wife gave "hot-drops"—at night an Indian pill;

       Next morning, feverish—bedtime, getting worse—

       Out of his head—began to rave and curse;

       The Doctor sent for—double quick he came

       Ant. Tart. gran. duo, and repeat the same If no et cetera. Third day—nothing new; Percussed his thorax till 't was black and blue— Lung-fever threatening—something of the sort— Out with the lancet—let him bleed—a quart— Ten leeches next—then blisters to his side; Ten grains of calomel; just then he died.

      The Deacon next required the Doctor's care—

       Took cold by sitting in a draught of air—

       Pains in the back, but what the matter is

       Not quite so clear—wife calls it "rheumatiz."

       Rubs back with flannel—gives him something hot—

       "Ah!" says the Deacon, "that goes nigh the spot."

       Next day a rigor—"Run, my little man,

      

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