'Our Country Doctor' by Mary Hopkins, 1919

“Our Country Doctor” by Mary M. Hopkins, as printed in the July 4, 1919, issue of the Elizabeth City Independent

You’ll know him by his muddy shoes,

His clothes of last year’s style,

The weary look about him,

The sweetness of his smile.

You’ll know him when the school’s let out,

And see the children flock

To catch a cheery word from him,

And shout their “Hello, Doc!”

You’ll know him, too, at midnight,

When he rides thru’ sleet and rain,

And wades deep in a swollen stream,

To reach your bed of pain.

You’ll know him in the dawning,

Still sitting by your bed

In damp clothes—Oh, so patient—

His hand upon your head.

He was never in a hurry,

When a kindly word could cheer;

And the little jokes he saved for you

Are memories most dear.

He didn’t fall in Flanders Field,

Where crimson poppies grew;

He wore himself out, waiting

On folks like me and you.

He had no cross on Flanders Field,

“Mid poppies” crimson hue;

The cross is in the aching hearts

Of folks like me and you.

                                Mary M. Hopkins