How often, when your skill subdued
    The fever ranging highly,
You won a bushman’s gratitude,
    Though little more, Doc Wylie!

How oft across the regions wide
    Where scrub for many a mile lay
The bushman rode, as bushmen ride,
    To seek your aid, Doc Wylie!

But now, when bushman’s wife or child
    Lies ill and suffering direly,
He’ll need to ride a weary while
    Before he finds Doc Wylie.

I hope where they have made your bed,
    And where these verses I lay,
They’ll raise a board above your head—
    And write your name—Doc Wylie!