ho'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,
And say the Deacon sends for Doctor Van."
The Doctor came--percussion as before,
Thumping and banging till his ribs were sore--
"Right side the