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!