Pestilence
By Philip Freneau
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!
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