He traveled o’er the prairies
and thru’ the vast terrain,
by covered surrey carriage,
or single horse he came.

To heal the sick, or birth a child—
his duties he’d not shirk,
in blowing rain, or blizzard snow,
Doc practiced at his work.

Mortar and pestle he always used
for powders that he ground,
measuring potions carefully
to distribute on his rounds.

He acquired no great riches,
or mansion on the hill
for his gentle words and treatment,
his remedies, or skill.

Often, he took payment
of a chicken, or a goose—
no coins jingled in his pockets,
tho’ he’d have surely found their use.

I guess he found his favor
in faces of those cured,
and built his reputation
with a handshake, and his word.

He’s a hero of the Wild West—
he saved most of our kin,
was devoted to his patients,
and honored among men.

 

Tamara Hillman
©2004