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TO THE SURGEON-GENERAL30 OF THE
STATE OF NEW YORK.
“Why, Tom! he knows all things. An it be not the devil himself, we may thank God.”Village Wizard.
h! Mitchill, lord of granite flints,
Doctus in law—and wholesome dishes;
Protector of the patent splints,
The foe of whales—the friend of fishes,
“Tom Codus,”—“Septon” “Phlogobombas!”
What title shall we find to fit you?
Inquisitor of sprats and compost,
Or Surgeon-General of militia!
We hail thee—mammoth of the State!
Steam frigate on the waves of physic!
Equal in practice or debate,
To cure the nation or the phthisic;
The amateur of Tartar dogs,
Wheat-flies, and maggots that create ’em!
Of mummies, and of mummy chogs!
Of brickbats, lotteries, and pomatum!
