The Doctor’s Dream

I am sitting alone, by the surgery fire, with my pipe alight, now the day is done;

The village is quiet, the wife’s asleep, the child is hushed, and the clock strikes one!

And I think to myself, as I read the Journal, and I bless my life for the peace upstairs.

That the burden’s sore for the best of men, but few can dream what a doctor bears;

For here I sit at the close of a day, whilst others have counted their profit and gain.

And I have tried as much as a man can do, in my humble manner, to soften pain;

I ‘ve warned them all, in a learned way, of careful diet, and talked of tone;

And when I have preached of regular meals, I ‘ve scarcely had time to swallow my own.

I was waked last night in my first long sleep, when I crawled to bed from my rounds — dead beat.

“Ah, the Doctor’s called! ” and they turned and snortd, as my trap went rattling down the street!

I sowed my oats, pretty wild they were, in the regular manner when life was free;

For a medical student isn’t a saint, any more than your orthodox Pharisee!

I suppose I did what others have done, since the whirligig round of folly began;

And the ignorant pleasures I loved as a boy, I have pretty well cursed since I came to be man.

But still I recall through the mist of years, and through the portals of memory steal.

The kindly voice of a dear old man who talked to us lads of the men who heal.

Of the splendid mission in life for those who study the science that comes from God,

Who buckle the armor of Nature on, who bare their breasts and who kiss the rod.

So the boy disappeared in the faith of the man, and the oats were sowed, but I never forgot

There were few better things in the world to do than to lose all self in the doctor’s lot.

So I left life that had seemed so dear, to earn a crust that isn’t so cheap.

And I bought a share of a practice here, to win my way, and to lose my sleep;

To be day and night at the beck and call of men who ail and women who lie;

To know how often the rascals live, and see with sorrow the dear ones die;

To be laughed to scorn as a man who fails, when nature pays her terrible debt;

To give a mother her first-born’s smile, and leave the eyes of the husband wet;

To face and brave the gossip and stuff that travels about through a country town;

To be thrown in the way of hysterical girls, and live all terrible scandals down;

To study at night in the papers here of new disease and of human ills;

To work like a slave for a weary year, and then to be cursed when I send my bills!

Upon my honor, we ‘re not too hard on those who cannot afford to pay.

For nothing I ‘ve cured the widow and child, for nothing I ‘ve watched till the night turned day;

I ‘ve earned the prayers of the poor, thank God, and I ‘ve borne the sneers of the pampered beast,

I ‘ve heard confessions and kept them safe as a sacred trust like a righteous priest.

To do my duty I never have sworn, as others must do in this world of woe.

But I ‘ve driven away to the bed of pain, through days of rain, through nights of snow.

As here I sit and I smoke my pipe, when the day Is done and the wife’s asleep,

I think of that brother-in-arms who ‘s gone, and utter — well something loud and deep!

And I read the Journal and I fling it down, and I fancy I hear in the night that scream.

Of a woman who ‘s crying for vengeance! Hark! no, the house is still It ‘s a doctor’s dream!

By: Anonymous