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!