DE TE 



And you, Brown, you're a doctor ; cure 

 You can't, but you can kill, and he — 



*' Witness his mark'' he signed last year, 

 And now he signs John Smith, J. P. 



We'll hold our inquest now, we three ; 

 I'll be your coroner for once ; 



I think old Oswald ought to be 



Our foreman — Jones is such a dunce, — 

 There's more brain in the bloodhound's 

 sconce. 



No man may shirk the allotted work, 



The deed to do, the death to die ; 

 At least I think so, — neither Turk, 



Nor Jew, nor infidel am I, — 

 And yet I wonder when I try 



To solve one question, may or must, 

 And shall I solve it by-and-bye, 



Beyond the dark, beneath the dust ? 



I trust so, and I only trust. 



Aye what they will, such trifles kill. 



Comrade, for one good deed of yours, 



Your history shall not help to fill 



The mouths of many brainless boors. 

 205 



