The Juryman.
THE JURYMAN. BY L. G. SMITH. An ancient seer, well versed in lore, Oft burned the midnight oil, to pore O'er musty tomes, both dry and deep, Through darksome hours when honest men should sleep, Till wearied brain at last refused To yield the force so long abused, And this wise seer then found at length His erstwhile studious hours had sapped his strength. He sought a surgeon of repute, And, bowing knee in deep salute: "Kind sir, I scarce can leave my bed; Remove," prayed he, "this megrim from my head." The surgeon shaved his patient's crown. "Alas, sir," said he, with a frown, "Your brains, alack, I clearly see, I must remove by help of surgery. "But have no fear, for this I swear, I'll in a week return them there, As fresh and strong as brains may be, By this same wondrous power of surgery." The patient left, nor more, I ween, For weeks was by that surgeon seen. By missive then, the surgeon said: "Thy brains are ready, sir. Bring back thine head." The man ycleped the seer, replied: "To see thee, sir, I fain have tried; But civic duties press their claims, Where I am hampered not by loss of brains. As member of the jury, sir, I wot, Thou knowest for the nonce I need them not; But when this sitting of the court be o'er, Thou mayest replace them where they were before."
357
