The second is of a very different flavor and shows Field indulging in that play of personal persiflage, in which he took a never-flagging pleasure.  It has no title and was written in pencil on two sheets of rough brown paper: 

The Dock he is a genial friend, He frequently has cash to lend; He writes for Rauch, and on the pay He sets ’em up three times a day.  Oh, how serenely I would mock My creditors, if I were Dock.

  The Cowen is a lusty lad
  For whom the women-folks go mad;
  He has a girl in every block—­
  Herein, methinks, he beats the Dock—­
  Yes, if the choice were left to me
  A lusty Cowen I would be.

  Yet were I Cowen, where, oh, where
  Would be my Julia, plump and fair? 
  And where would be those children four
  Which now I smilingly adore? 
  The thought induces such a shock,
  I’d not be Cowen—­I’d be Dock!

  But were I Dock, with stores of gold,
  How would I pine at being old—­
  How grieve to see in Cowen’s eyes
  That amorous fire which age denies—­
  Oh, no, I’d not be Dock forsooth,
  I’d rather be the lusty youth.

  Nor Dock, nor Cowen would I be,
  But such as God hath fashioned me;
  For I may now with maidens fair
  Assume I’m Cowen debonnair,
  Or, splurging on a borrowed stock,
  I can imagine I’m the Dock._

The last tribute which I quote from Field to his school-master, literary guide, and friend is credited to the “Wit of the Silurian Age,” and is accompanied by a drawing by the poet, who took a cut from some weekly of the day and touched it up with black, red, and green ink to represent the genial “Dock” seated in an arm-chair before a cheery fire, with the inevitable claret bottle on a stand within easy reach and a glass poised in his hand ready for the sip of a connoisseur, while the devotee of Kit North and Father Prout beamed graciously at you through his glasses: 

  Said Field to Dr. Reilly, “You
      Are like the moon, for you get brighter
  When you get full, and it is true
      Your heavy woes thereby grow lighter.”

  “And you” the Doctor answer made,
      “Are like, the moon because you borrow
  The capital on which you trade—­
      As I’m acquainted, to my sorrow!”

  “’Tis true I’m like the moon, I know,”
      Replied the poor but honest wight,
  “For, journeying through this vale of woe,
      I borrow oft, but always light!"_

But Field’s acknowledgments of an ever-increasing debt of gratitude to Dr. Reilly were not confined to privately circulated tokens of affection and friendship, as the following stanzas, printed in his column in the News, in February, 1889, testify: 

TO F.W.R.  AT 6 P.M.

My friend, Maecenas and physician,
Is in so grumpy a condition
I really more than half suspicion
He nears his end;
Who then would lie on earth to shave me,
To feed me, coach me, and to save me
From tedious cares that would enslave me—­
Without this friend?