LD Rip Van Winkle had a grandson,
Rip,
Of the paternal block a genuine chip,—ÂA lazy, sleepy, curious kind of chap;
He, like his grandsire, took a mighty nap,
Whereof the story I propose to
In two brief cantos, if you listen well.
The times were hard when Rip to manhood grew;
They always will be when there’s work to do.
He tried at farming,—Âfound it rather slow,—ÂAnd then at teaching—Âwhat he did n’t know;
Then took to hanging round the tavern bars,
To frequent toddies and long-nine cigars,
Till Dame Van Winkle, out of patience,
With preaching homilies, having for their textA mop, a broomstick, aught that might
To point a moral or adorn a tale,
Exclaimed, “I have it! Now, then,
Mr.
V.
He’s good for something,—Âmake him an M.
D.!â€The die was cast; the youngster was content;
They packed his shirts and stockings, and he went.
How hard he studied it were vain to tell;
He drowsed through Wistar, nodded over Bell,
Slept sound with Cooper, snored aloud on Good;
Heard heaps of lectures,—Âdoubtless understood,—ÂA constant listener, for he did not
To carve his name on every bench and rail.
Months grew to years; at last he counted three,
And Rip Van Winkle found himself M.
D.
Illustrious title! in a gilded
He set the sheepskin with his Latin name,
UM
AN
UM,
EM
UM
SE—Âto do so and so.
He hired an office; soon its walls
His new diploma and his stock in trade,
A mighty arsenal to subdue disease,
Of various names, whereof I mention
Lancets and bougies, great and little squirt,
Rhubarb and Senna,
Snakeroot,
Thoroughwort,
Ant. Tart.,
Vin. Colch.,
Pil. Cochiae, and Black Drop,
Tinctures of Opium,
Gentian,
Henbane,
Hop,
Pulv. Ipecacuanhae, which for
Of breath to utter men call Ipecac,
Camphor and Kino,
Turpentine,
Tolu,
Cubebs, “Copeevy,†Vitriol,—Âwhite and blue,—ÂFennel and Flaxseed,
Slippery Elm and Squill,
And roots of Sassafras, and “Sassaf’rill,â€Brandy,—Âfor colics,—ÂPinkroot, death on worms,—ÂValerian, calmer of hysteric squirms,
Musk,
Assafoetida, the resinous
Named from its odor,—Âwell, it does smell some,—ÂJalap, that works not wisely, but too well,
Ten pounds of Bark and six of Calomel.
For outward griefs he had an ample store,
Some twenty jars and gallipots, or more: Ceratum simplex—Âhousewives oft compile The same at home, and call it “wax and ile;†Unguentum resinosum—Âchange its name,
The “drawing salve†of many an ancient dame;
Argenti Nitras, also Spanish flies,
Whose virtue makes the water-bladders rise— (Some say that spread upon a toper’s skin They draw no water, only rum or gin);
Leeches, sweet vermin! don’t they charm the sick? And Sticking-plaster—Âhow it hates to stick Emplastrum Ferri—Âditto Picis,
Pitch;
Washes and Powders,
Brimstone for the — Âwhich,
Scabies or Psora, is thy chosen name Since Hahnemann’s goose-quill scratched thee into fame,
Proved thee the source of every nameless ill,
Whose sole specific is a moonshine pill,
Till saucy Science, with a quiet grin,
Held up the Acarus, crawling on a pin? —ÂMountains have labored and have brought forth mice The Dutchman’s theory hatched a brood of—Âtwice I’ve well-nigh said them—Âwords unfitting quite For these fair precincts and for ears polite.
The surest foot may chance at last to slip,
And so at length it proved with Doctor Rip.
One full-sized bottle stood upon the shelf,
Which held the medicine that he took himself;
Whate’er the reason, it must be
He filled that bottle oftener than the rest;
What drug it held I don’t presume to know—ÂThe gilded label said “Elixir Pro.â€One day the Doctor found the bottle full,
And, being thirsty, took a vigorous pull,
Put back the “Elixir†where ’t was always found,
And had old Dobbin saddled and brought round. —ÂYou know those old-time rhubarb-colored
That carried Doctors and their saddle-bags;
Sagacious beasts! they stopped at every
Where blinds were shut—Âknew every patient’s case—ÂLooked up and thought—ÂThe baby’s in a fit—ÂThat won’t last long—Âhe’ll soon be through with it;
But shook their heads before the knockered
Where some old lady told the story
Whose endless stream of tribulation
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
Through paths the mountain sheep trod single file,
O’ercome by feelings such as patients
Who dose too freely with “Elixir Pro.,â€He tumbl—Âdismounted, 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,—Ânever could be found. “Drownded,†they guessed;—Âfor more than half a
The pouts and eels did taste uncommon queer;
Some said of apple-brandy—Âother
Found a strong flavor of New England rum.
Why can’t a fellow hear the fine things
About a fellow when a fellow’s dead?
The best of doctors—Âso the press declared—ÂA 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—Âif 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—Âif you lend your
To hear my second Canto, after
We ’ll send around the monkey with the hat.