The counsel summoned came without delay-- Young Doctor Green and shrewd old Doctor Gray-- They heard the story--"Bleed!" says Doctor Green, "That's downright murder! cut his throat, you mean Leeches! the reptiles! Why, for pity's sake, Not try an adder or a rattlesnake? Blisters! Why bless you, they 're against the law-- It's rank assault and battery if they draw Tartrate of Antimony! shade of Luke, Stomachs turn pale at thought of such rebuke! The portal system! What's the man about? Unload your nonsense! Calomel's played out! You've been asleep--you'd better sleep away Till some one calls you." "Stop!" says Doctor Gray-- "The story is you slept for thirty years; With brother Green, I own that it appears You must have slumbered most amazing sound; But sleep once more till thirty years come round, You'll find the lancet in its honored place, Leeches and blisters rescued from disgrace, Your drugs redeemed from fashion's passing scorn, And counted safe to give to babes unborn." Poor sleepy Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D., A puzzled, serious, saddened man was he; Home from the Deacon's house he plodded slow And filled one bumper of "Elixir Pro." "Good-by," he faltered, "Mrs. Van, my dear! I'm going to sleep, but wake me once a year; I don't like bleaching in the frost and dew, I'll take the barn, if all the same to you. Just once a year--remember! no mistake! Cry, 'Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake!' Watch for the week in May when laylocks blow, For then the Doctors meet, and I must go." Just once a year the Doctor's worthy dame Goes to the barn and shouts her husband's name; "Come, Rip Van Winkle!" (giving him a shake) "Rip! Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake! Laylocks in blossom! 't is the month of May-- The Doctors' meeting is this blessed day, And come what will, you know I heard you swear You'd never miss it, but be always there!" And so it is, as every year comes round Old Rip Van Winkle here is always found. You'll quickly know him by his mildewed air, The hayseed sprinkled through his scanty hair, The lichens growing on his rusty suit-- I've seen a toadstool sprouting on his boot-- Who says I lie? Does any man presume?-- Toadstool? No matter--call it a mushroom. Where is his seat? He moves it every year; But look, you'll find him,--he is always here,-- Perhaps you'll track him by a whiff you know-- A certain flavor of "Elixir Pro." Now, then, I give you--as you seem to think We can give toasts without a drop to drink-- Health to the mighty sleeper,--long live he! Our brother Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D.!