Collected Poetry by Andrew Barton Paterson

A man once read with a mind surprised Of the way that people were "hypnotised"; By waving of hands you produced, forsooth, A kind of trance where men told the truth! His mind was filled with wond'ring doubt; He grabbed his hat and he started out, He walked the street and he made a "set" At the first half-dozen folk he met. He "tranced" them all, and without a joke 'Twas much as follows the subjects spoke: First Man

-"I am a doctor, London-made, Listen to me and you'll hear displayed A few of the tricks of the doctor's trade. 'Twill sometimes chance when a patient's ill That a dose, or draught, or a lightning pill, A little too strong or a little too hot, Will work its way to a vital spot. And then I watch with a sickly grin While the patient 'passes his counters in'. But when he has gone with his fleeting breath I certify that the cause of death Was something Latin, and something long, And who is to say that the doctor's wrong! So I go my way with a stately tread While my patients sleep with the dreamless dead."