"Now, bear up, my son," cried the sorrowing Gluck.
"See! the doctor is coming. He'll bring us good luck.
By my croak! but it's Paff, the conceited old buck."
Then, quick to the doctor,
"My child! Is he killed?
Oh! save me my son
From the phaeton spilled.
Haste! give me the lotion! I'll pour it on here."
"No, no," moaned the patient, "I can't have him near,
His rubbing is torture. I'd rather be hung.
Dear doctor, he's rough--
He's nursed me enough--
Oh! send little Eng for that oldest Miss Gung."
[Illustration]