Heaven knows how far this cruel trick Might still have led, but for a tramper That came in danger’s very nick, To put Maloney to the scamper. But still compassion met a damper; There lay the severed nose, alas! Beside the daisies on the grass, “Wee, crimson-tipt” as well as they, According to the poet’s lay: And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter! Away ran Hodge to get assistance, With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after, But somewhat at unusual distance. In many a little country place It is a very common case To have but one residing doctor, Whose practice rather seems to be No practice, but a rule of three, Physician--surgeon--drug-decocter; Thus Hunks was forced to go once more Where he had ta’en his tooth before. His mere name made the learnëd man hot-- “What! Hunks again within my door! I’ll pull his nose;” quoth Hunks, “you cannot.” The doctor looked and saw the case Plain as the nose _not_ on his face. “O! hum--ha--yes--I understand.” But then arose a long demur, For not a finger would he stir Till he was paid his fee in hand; That matter settled, there they were, With Hunks well strapped upon his chair. The opening of a surgeon’s job-- His tools, a chestful or a drawful-- Are always something very awful, And give the heart the strangest throb; But never patient in his funks Looked half so like a ghost as Hunks, Or surgeon half so like a devil Prepared for some infernal revel: His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling, Just like a bolus in a box: His fury seemed above controlling, He bellowed like a hunted ox: “Now, swindling wretch, I’ll show thee how We treat such cheating knaves as thou; Oh! sweet is this revenge to sup; I have thee by the nose--it’s now My turn--and I will turn it up.” Guess how the miser liked the scurvy And cruel way of venting passion; The snubbing folks in this new fashion Seemed quite to turn him topsy turvy; He uttered prayers, and groans, and curses, For things had often gone amiss And wrong with him before, but this Would be the worst of all _reverses_! In fancy he beheld his snout Turned upward like a pitcher’s spout; There was another grievance yet, And fancy did not fail to show it, That he must throw a summerset, Or stand upon his head to blow it.