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 hot, and some in cold fits

In bad temper,

Off they scamper,

Leaving us — unhappy 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!