Classic Poem

New doctors in it? Maybe so
Their names are on the door.
But the likes of our old doctor
We'll surely see no more, —
A fine endurable good man,
The friend of all the poor.

He's served this town's dispensary
Just pushing forty year,
An' not a creature in the place
But always got his ear.
The christianable way he has
Would drive away your fear.

He'll leave his bed on winter nights
An' never grudge his rest,
He laughs to hear you thanking him
And turns it with a jest.
The worst rapscallion of the lot
He treats him with the best.

The most of us he's seen come home
And stood the mothers' friend.
He gives till he's an empty purse,
And what he has he'll lend.
And if so be you can't be cured
He's with you till the end.

I'm thinking Heaven won't be full
Till he's inside the door,
The blessed saints will make his bed
Upon a golden floor:
But if they need the likes of him
It's plain we need him more.

So when he goes as go he must,
As flame burns out a wick,
He'll take for comfort on his way
The prayers of sad and sick.
I think the Man Above will say
" You're welcome home, avic. "