Dr. David B. Taylor Poem
This appeared in the newspaper, some time after the
party on June 1, 1895.
It was last Monday afternoon,
Twixt one o'clock and three,
I received a special summons,
That I must a poet be,
And that I would be expected,
Upon the first of June
To read the poem here to-day,
And furnish my own tune.
The letter said, we will surprise
The good, old Doctor here,
We'll all go in the afternoon,
And give them hearty cheer,
We'll go and take ourselves along,
And take our supper too,
And Hughie must do the rhyming
For that's all he can do.
Now maybe that's not cheeky,
And maybe that's not gall,
But if its not by judgement's off,
I think it is, that's all!
To ask a man to write a thyme,
And take his supper too,
Is something that no other one,
But Mary White could do.
But that I knew the heart was true,
And the intention right,
You must have got another one
To sing the song tonight,
But now I have got it begun
I'll see what I can do.
And what that is you all will know,
When I have gotten through.
On the shores of old Lake Erie,
Near Ashthabula town,
Was born a Buckeye baby,
That yet should know renown,
On the happy Christmas morning,
Eighteen twenty-seven,
The mother brought the father,
A present straight from heaven.
The father called him David
And his mother added B.
Thus another soul was started,
For the great eternity,
How he grew in strength and stature,
I will not try to show,
And this my only reason is
Because I do not know.
I know not what he lived on,
Whether fish, flesh, fowl or game,
But one thing is self evident,
"He got there just the same."
He might have been a "Spindleshanks"
He might have been a "toad,"
But another thing is evident,
H learned to bear this load,
He never asked another one,
To help him through the mill,
But dug his bare toes in the grit,
And climbed the rugged hill,
When he came to learnings fountain,
He soaked him, through and through,
He drank an honest belly full,
No little draft would do.
I've heard him talk on "woman's rights,"
And on Phrenology,
"Tis an old exploded humbug,"
The Doctor said, said he,
And I am half inclined to think
The Doctor had it right,
You cannot always judge a man,
By what appears in sight.
The work is very full
Of curious kind of teachers.
A person might know something,
With a head shaped like a preacher's,
And nature might mix up a dose,
(That prince of all concoctors,)
And make a perfect idiot,
With a head shaped like the Doctor's.
Or, might get up a prodigy
That anywhere would shine,
And still there be no difference
Between his head and mine.
Now this the ministers would call
"Just a short digression:
So I go back unto my text,
Or not get through this seasion.
The first we know of the laddie
He had his first new pants,
He sat down in a mess of mud,
His mother made him dance.
Then Davie went to the schoolhouse,
At least they called it such,
The teacher looked him o'er and said
"He won't amount to much,"
He looked so kind of `scraggy like,"
His pants had patches on,
They were made from some of father's,
Worn out some years agone.
The teacher asked him, "What's your name?"
He answered "David B."
"Be what?" the teacher said again,
"Be blown? or Bumble Bee?"
"Just David B." he said again,
It set the teacher humming,
"Then what's your father's name, said she,"
"He's old, he isn't coming."
But soon they got things straightened out,
David got some learning,
So that he taught the school himself,
And was some money earning.
In eighteen hundred fort-five
They all did emigrate,
To the State of the Wolverine,
And left the Buckeye State.
Into the might forest came,
And built themselves a home.
Where Red Lynx lurked and woodmen worked,
And the wild cat did roam.
He helped to raise the mortgage
That was holding down the farm,
It helped the tired parents,
And gave life an added charm.
The years he worked upon the farm,
And taught the winter school
It added muscle to the arm
And taught the mind to rule,
And then he studied medicine,
And learned to make the pill,
The trick he never has forgot
For he is at it still.
He went through several colleges,
And took the last degree,
Then proudly did he sign his name,
D. B. Taylor M. D.
He enlisted in the army
Of war he took a sup,
He did not go to kill the men,
But just to cut them up.
He served as Assistant Surgeon
Of his own regiment.
It did not give him scope enough,
He was not there content,
So he came to old Lake County,
I think in sixty-two,
In Antioch I saw him first,
He wore his coat of blue.
It had the big brass buttons on
And made a pretty show,
I see them just as plain to-day
As thirty years ago.
He used to sing a happy song,
The words I can't relate,
But this was ere the chorus,
"Meet me Josie at the gate."
How much music there was in it
I'm not prepared to state,
But I know that he was happy
When she met him at the gate.
You know we have within our hearts,
That cometh from above,
There'd be music in a saw log
If the saw log was in love.
The next time that I saw the man,
He'd something more than song,
"Twas in the streets of Antioch,
He had his wife along.
Miss Josephine Dodge, that had been,
Had won the Doctor's heart;
"What God hath joined together,
Let no man put apart."
It was when she'd seen twenty years,
And he was thirty five.
He thought his darling Josephine
The sweetest girl alive.
And she just told the Doctor that
He was her hubby hub.
He traveled in the name of health,
While she looked out for grub.
In a little house in Millburn,
Where now stands the Pantall store,
They settled down to keeping house,
As many have before.
The Doctor got a hoss and gig,
A high-backed sulky `twas,
I never saw the like before,
Nor have I since, because
There never was another made
That could with it compare,
`Twas just exactly the reverse
Of "Peggy's" low-backed car.
The Doctor traveled every road,
The by-way and the lane,
For somehow where he once was called
They wanted him again.
He never flattered any one,
He never used soft soap,
Nor told a man "he'd fetch him through"
When there was not a hop.
He never courted any man
To get in his good grace,
"I'll let my practice show for me
Whatever's on its face."
I've met him often on the road,
He would not even nod;
But no man ever yet could show
He walked a crooked rod.
He was just as straight and honest
As e'er the day was long;
Was ever on the side of right,
Nor covered up a wrong.
When he first began to practice
He was so poor, I ween,
He could not buy a postage stamp,
To write to his Josephine.
Now he cannot count his ducats
With figures less than five,
And they must e'en be multiplied
To make a right arrive.
In the pleasant little cottage,
Where first they lived alone,
A pretty baby girl was born,
Whom Doctor named Ione;
The bride had budded, blossomed, born,
Ripened into mother.
The Doctor looked the baby o'ver,
There ne'er was such another.
And so we see the family
In earnest was begun,
The baby weighed about eight points,
The father weighed a ton.
`Twas in the pleasant summer time,
The eighth day of July,
The eighteen sixty-seventh year,
Doc. first sung lullaby.
About two years therefrom, or more,
Ralph Carpenter was born,
November twelfth, in sixty-nine,
Quite early in the morn.
And now they have a boy and girl,
A very pretty pair,
Iony was a bright brunette,
And Ralphy very fair.
The father claimed the daughter,
And the mother claimed the son,
But don't you e'er forget it,
They were proud of either one.
They dressed them in the best they had
And stood them in a row,
To be sure and get them counted
Without mistake, you know.
Though they often looked them over,
And thought they were a host,
They really never figured up
More than the two at most.
`Tll Edward Theron posted up,
In eighteen seventy-two,
The Doctor looked him o'ver and said:
"I guess not that will do."
November twelfth, his natal day,
When first he saw the light,
May all the holy powers defend,
And keep him in the right.
The fair trio grew and prospered,
Protected from life's ills,
The mother always knew enough
To not give father's pills.
They've grown in age, they've grown in strength
And mental caliber,
Until as men and women,
They are standing with us here;
There's not a being in the land
They may not meet as peer,
No stain upon their honored name
Doth anywhere appear.
They've flown and left the parent nest,
The wings are growing strong;
May they the righteous ne'er desert,
Nor champion the wrong.
When first they left this beauteous home,
The house seemed cold and drear,
But now Old Doc seems young again,
With little Jessie here.
A home they gave to the homeless,
And fed a hungry child;
A vine they trimmed to beauty
Once growing rank and wild.
Oh! Love! there is nothing like it,
When love is pure and true;
It brings sweet peace to the aged,
It doth the youth renew.
Now let me tell you how they made
Those children men and women;
They did not give them any cream
Unless they done the skimmin',
They gave whate'er they promised the,
Doll, knife, jump jack or lickin',
Nor ever turned them off with mush
When told they should have chicken.
Don't ever learn your child to lie,
By lying first yourself;
For if you do, the thing you'll rue,
Ere you're laid on the shelf.
But teach them to be truthful men,
And ever stand for right.
And when the dark'ning night shall come,
Thy path shall have a light.
Some may find fault with Taylor's folks,
And gossip's stories tell,
My friend just keep you hopper shut,
`Till you can do as well.
The Doctor's set more broken bones
Than any man around.
Has cured ills, with pleasant pills,
And hosts of babies "found."
Cerebro spinal menigitis,
Camped in my spinal column,
They sent for Doctor Taylor,
His face was rather solemn,.
My head had started for my heels
And he applies a blister.
I think I would have gone for sure,
But for him and my sister.
And once my lungs were all inflamed,
My head was like to split,
I did not dine, I did not sup,
Nor knew a little bit,
The doctor staid right by me then,
As silent as a quaker,
I tell you business then looked good,
For some poor undertaker.
Now should your wife be taken ill,
What ever there may ail her,
Or you fall sick don't fear to send,
For good old Doctor Taylor,
Unless - you wanted Tombaugh,
Or Ames perhaps, or Karr,
Any of them could lay you out,
And never leave a scar.
I read that last verse to my wife
And she kicked up as stir,
She said she'd let me understand,
That Ames would do for her,
But then you know when she was sick
I nursed her to my credit,
And had she known how it would sound,
I don't think she'd have said it.
Well! medicine was quite a trade,
Till Christian Science came,
But now tis growing obsolete,
Its hardly worth the name,
Its so much easier to take,
And also so much cheaper,
But when I hear one preaching it,
I think he needs a keeper.
The Doctor gets the cash in hand,
The preacher gets the pie,
The poet waits for his reward,
In heaven by and by,
The Doctor lives on what he buys,
The minister on chickens.
But If the poet tells the truth,
He only gets the pickin's.
The Doctor has survived the reign,
Of thirteen preacher men,
I think that some here would rejoice,
Should he do so again.
I think the present minister,
Will talk himself to death,
Unless the Lord in wisdom, should
Refuse to furnish breath.
His waistband large, and larger grows,
Is ever larger getting.
He's eaten sixteen sandwiches,
At a single sitting,
He'd better stop and take a rest,
Lest nature should be goaded
To take revenge upon herself
And he should be exploded.
Well now I'll have to tell you why,
I am with you today,
Just the very simple reason,
To hear what I would say,
Twas just a little put up job,
Twixt Mary and the preacher.
That I should come before you, as
A sort of music teacher.
And if they do the like again,
I'll give them both a toasting,
I'll give them what they both deserve,
An energetic roasting,
I rather feel like Samson did,
Who long ago was seen
To pay in the house of Dagon,
To please the Philisteen
And though I will not pull the posts,
Or cause the house to tumble,
If this does not exactly please,
The thing to do is grumble.
A POSTSCRIPT
Since coming here this afternoon,
A postscript I appended.
To let you know the names of those
That come, or had intended.
George S. Smith and wife, I see,
Are honored guests of honor;
*Grandma Chope, whose years of life
Are rich and ripe upon her.
William Thom, and his guid wife,
Whose lives have richly blended;
#Grandma Sorter, also, here,
Who sons and grandsons tended.
David White and Maggie here,
What are we getting into?
Upon my word, if there is not
Sue, and Deacon Minto.
Grandma Chope brought her son Willie,
Miss Thom and Deacon Thain;
Mr. Roddle and Mrs. Yule,
Andre T. White and Jane;
Mrs. S. Smith, Mrs. Sadler,
George B. and Sarah Dodge,
Mrs. Mathews, Mrs. Tower,
All here in nature's lodge.
Mr. A. H. Stewart and wife,
Also Miss Anderson,
George Stephens and his better half,
And I have just begun.
Mr. Mrs. Jon Strang, Senior,
Mrs. Spafford, too;
Mrs. Bater, Carrie Bater,
And Mrs. Lawrence, true.
Mr. Mrs. Henry Taylor,
Grandma Tower I see;
Mrs. Lampson, Susie Taylor -
She is a busy bee.
Robert, Aggie, Nellie, Emma,
All down from Farm Argyle;
I'll just put in a few more names,
And then we rest awhile.
Mr. Mrs. Horace Tower,
Joshua Wedge and girl.
Gordie Jamieson and his wife
Here do their flag unfurl.
Mrs. Will White, and her William,
Also Mrs. Cory,
John Bonner and his better half
Most completes the story.
I see Miss Calavah is here,
I most forgot the preacher,
And also his long suffering wife,
I pit the poor creature.
J. M. Strang and wife are in it,
Doc. and Erma, too,
James K. Pollock and his Mrs.,
And Jessie, wife of Hugh.
* aged 89
# aged 90.
