DOCTOR STUART.

Clutha Leader, Volume XX, Issue 1035, 25 May 1894, Page 3

DOCTOR STUART.

»M , | The following poem on Dr Stuart is taken from the ' Lays of the Old Identities,' which was published by Mr John Blair a few years ago. The writer says at the beginning of the poe.m : — ' I awoke one morning whilf " the Doctor " was on furlough, and was under the impression that?he was dead ; happily it was but a dream ' : — Dunedin flags are half-mast high, The tear is seen in many an eye, The widow nnd the orphan cry Wt»'re pour indeed. The Doctor's breathed his latest sigh — The Doctor's dead. No more we'll meet him on the street, The nodding head, the hearty greet, The stalwart form, the mind elite, Not dwarfed by creed, And yet true Presbyterian breed — The Doctor's dead. We'll often miss him when the banns Are consummate by laving hands, Or when the death-bed scene unmans, And stout hearts bleed ; No more at open grave he stands — The Doctor's dead. No more in Knot's pulpit seen, 0' ministers and men the cream ; His homely speech, his humour keen, Not drive but lead ; This was his plan, 'twas plainly seen — The Doctor's de<\d. No more in visiting the sick, With ample plaid and crooked stick, The humble prayer, the feelings quick, Ay there indeed. We'll miss the man o' men the pick — The Doctor's dead. No more in council he'll take part On social themes wi' men o' mark ; Hi 3 head was sound, as for the heart, He showed by deed That it was right — there was no art— The Doctor's dead. No more the watchman on his beat Shall stop the Doctor on the street, Bearing the blankets and the sheet To friend in need ; No wonder that the bairniea cry — "The Doctor's dead." No more he'll preach beneath the pine, Nor in the barn give " Line on line," Or distribute the bread and wine To pioneer breed. As in the days o' auld lang syne— The Doctor's dead. What was the Doctor's pedigree 1 " Garter-at-arms come read the tree Of Stuart line ; the same you see, O ! stop the screed ;" An honest man, we all agree— The Doctor's dead. Farewell, thy memory will not rust, Ota<io will rovere thy dust ; Wi limners' skill and artists' bust We'll show our seed That to thy name we have been just — The Doctor's dead.