WE all have heard of Dr. Redman,
The man in New York who deals with dead men,
Who sits at a table,
And straightway is able
To talk with the spirits of those who have fled, man!
And gentles and ladies
Located in Hades,
Through his miraculous mediation,
Declare how they feel,
And such things reveal
As suits their genius for impartation.
'Tis not with any irreverent spirit
I give the tale, or flout it, or jeer it;
For many good folk
Not subject to joke
Declare for the fact that they both see and hear it.
It comes from New York, though,
And it might be hard work, though,
To bring belief to any point near it.
Now this Dr. Redman,
Who deals with dead men,
Once cut up a fellow whose spirit had fled, man,
Who (the fellow) perchance
Had indulged in that dance
Performed at the end of a hempen thread, man;
And the cut-up one,
(A sort of a gun!)
Like Banquo, though he was dead, wasn't done,
Insisted in very positive tones
That he'd be ground to calcined manure,
Or any other evil endure,
Before he'd give up his right to his bones!
And then, through knocks, the resolute dead man
Gave his bones a bequest to Redman.
In Hartford, Conn.,
This matter was done,
And Redman the bones highly thought on,
When, changed to New York
Was the scene of his work,
In conjunction with Dr. Orton.
Now mark the wonder that here appears:
After a season of months and years,
Comes up again the dead man,
Who in a very practical way,
Says he'll bring his bones some day,
And give them again to Redman.
When, sure enough
(Though some that are rough
Might call the narrative "devilish tough"),
One charming day
In the month of May,
As Orton and Redman walked the street
Through the severing air,
From they knew not where,
Came a positive bone, all bleached and bare.
That dropped at the doctor's wondering feet!
Then the sprightly dead man
Knocked out to Redman
The plan that lay in his ghostly head, man:
He'd carry the freight,
Unheeding its weight;
They needn't question how, or about it;
But they might be sure
The bones he'd procure
And not make any great bones about it.
From that he made it a special point
Each day for their larder to furnish a joint!
From overhead, and from all around,
Upon the floor, and upon the ground,
Low bones, and high bones,
Jaw bones, and thigh bones,
Until the doctors, beneath their power,
Ducked like ducks in a thunder-shower!
Armfuls of bones,
Bagfuls of bones,
Cartloads of bones,
No end to the multitudinous bones,
Until, forsooth, this thought gained head, man,
That this invisible friend, the dead man,
Had chartered a band
From the shadowy land,
Who had turned to work with a busy hand,
And boned all their bones for Dr. Redman!
Now, how to account for all the mystery
Of this same weird and fantastical history?
That is the question
For people's digestion,
And calls aloud for instant untwistery!
Of this we are certain,
By this lift of the curtain,
That still they're alive for work or enjoyment,
Though I must confess
That I scarcely can guess
Why they don't choose some useful employment.
Dr. Redman, of New York, was a noted medium, and it
was said that, for a while, wherever he might be, bones would
be dropped all about him, to the confusion and wonder of
everybody. These bones, he said, were brought him by a
spirit, whose bones were of no further use to him.