bubble30
Pestilence
Hot, dry winds forever blowing,
Dead men to the grave-yards going:
Constant hearses,
Funeral verses;
Oh! what plagues—there is no knowing!
Priests retreating from their pulpits!—
Some in caves, and some in cole-pits
Snugly hiding,
There abiding
’Till the town is rid of culprits.
Doctors raving and disputing,
Death's pale army still recruiting—
What a pother
One with t'other!
Some a-writing, some a-shooting.
Nature's poisons here collected,
Water, earth, and air infected—
O, what pity,
Such a City,
Was in such a place erected!
Philip Freneau
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