THE DOCTOR. A SKETCH.

“Whatever is, is right.”—Pope.

HERE once was a Doctor, (No foe to the proctor,) A physic concocter, Whose dose was so pat, However it acted, One speech it extracted,— “Yes, yes,” said the doctor, “I meant it for that!” And first, all “unaisy,” Like woman that’s crazy, In flies Mistress Casey, “Do come to poor Pat The blood’s running faster! He’s torn off the plaster—” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “I meant it for that!” Anon, with an antic, Quite strange and romantic, A woman comes frantic— “What could you be at? My darling dear Aleck, You’ve sent him oxalic!” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “I meant it for that!” Then in comes another, Dispatch’d by his mother, A blubbering brother, Who gives a rat-tat— “Oh, poor little sister Has lick’d off a blister!” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “I meant it for that!” Now home comes the flunkey, His own powder-monkey, But dull as a donkey— With basket and that— “The draught for the Squire, Sir, He chuck’d in the fire, Sir—” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “I meant it for that!” The next is the pompous Head Beadle, old Bumpus— “Lord! here is a rumpus: That pauper, Old Nat, In some drunken notion Has drunk up his lotion—” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “I meant it for that!” At last comes a servant, In grief very fervent: “Alas! Doctor Derwent, Poor Master is flat! He’s drawn his last breath, Sir— That dose was his death, Sir.” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “I meant it for that!”