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!