The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Complete. Oliver Wendell Holmes

"Fever—that's certain—pleurisy, perhaps.

       A quart of blood will ease the pain, no doubt,

       Ten leeches next will help to suck it out,

       Then clap a blister on the painful part—

       But first two grains of Antimonium Tart. Last with a dose of cleansing calomel Unload the portal system—(that sounds well!)"

      But when the selfsame remedies were tried,

       As all the village knew, the Squire had died;

      The neighbors hinted. "This will never do;

       He's killed the Squire—he'll kill the Deacon too."

      Now when a doctor's patients are perplexed,

       A consultation comes in order next—

       You know what that is? In a certain place

       Meet certain doctors to discuss a case

       And other matters, such as weather, crops,

       Potatoes, pumpkins, lager-beer, and hops.

       For what's the use?—there 's little to be said,

       Nine times in ten your man's as good as dead;

       At best a talk (the secret to disclose)

       Where three men guess and sometimes one man knows.

      The counsel summoned came without delay—

       Young Doctor Green and shrewd old Doctor Gray—

       They heard the story—"Bleed!" says Doctor Green,

       "That's downright murder! cut his throat, you mean

       Leeches! the reptiles! Why, for pity's sake,

       Not try an adder or a rattlesnake?

       Blisters! Why bless you, they 're against the law—

       It's rank assault and battery if they draw

       Tartrate of Antimony! shade of Luke,

       Stomachs turn pale at thought of such rebuke!

       The portal system! What's the man about?

       Unload your nonsense! Calomel's played out!

       You've been asleep—you'd better sleep away

       Till some one calls you."

      "Stop!" says Doctor Gray—

       "The story is you slept for thirty years;

       With brother Green, I own that it appears

       You must have slumbered most amazing sound;

       But sleep once more till thirty years come round,

       You'll find the lancet in its honored place,

       Leeches and blisters rescued from disgrace,

       Your drugs redeemed from fashion's passing scorn,

       And counted safe to give to babes unborn."

      Poor sleepy Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D.,

       A puzzled, serious, saddened man was he;

       Home from the Deacon's house he plodded slow

       And filled one bumper of "Elixir Pro."

       "Good-by," he faltered, "Mrs. Van, my dear!

       I'm going to sleep, but wake me once a year;

       I don't like bleaching in the frost and dew,

       I'll take the barn, if all the same to you.

       Just once a year—remember! no mistake!

       Cry, 'Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake!'

       Watch for the week in May when laylocks blow,

       For then the Doctors meet, and I must go."

      Just once a year the Doctor's worthy dame

       Goes to the barn and shouts her husband's name;

       "Come, Rip Van Winkle!" (giving him a shake)

       "Rip! Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake!

       Laylocks in blossom! 't is the month of May—

       The Doctors' meeting is this blessed day,

       And come what will, you know I heard you swear

       You'd never miss it, but be always there!"

      And so it is, as every year comes round

       Old Rip Van Winkle here is always found.

       You'll quickly know him by his mildewed air,

       The hayseed sprinkled through his scanty hair,

       The lichens growing on his rusty suit—

       I've seen a toadstool sprouting on his boot—

       Who says I lie? Does any man presume?—

       Toadstool? No matter—call it a mushroom.

       Where is his seat? He moves it every year;

       But look, you'll find him—he is always here—

       Perhaps you'll track him by a whiff you know—

       A certain flavor of "Elixir Pro."

      Now, then, I give you—as you seem to think

       We can give toasts without a drop to drink—

       Health to the mighty sleeper—long live he!

       Our brother Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D.!