THE GRIPPE

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To see us now, deceivers
Would say this land of beavers
Was full of fitful fevers
And other chills.
On all the passing breezes
There's nothing heard but wheezes,
With hacking coughs and sneezes,
And other ills.
The bear, that northern prowler,
The 'Oonalaska howler,
And every other growler
We read about,
With us have caught the churning
Whose cause is past discerning,
The demon that is turning
Us inside out.
The monster's exultation
Is heard throughout the nation,
He stops at every station
To spread himself;
And no one can avoid him,
'Tis useless to deride him,
Impossible to hide him
Upon a shelf.

Whence come those sudden changes,
With all their train of twinges,
Grim foes of health that hinges
On atmosphere?
There surely is a reason
For this fantastic season,
That sets the world a sneezin'
About us here.
This "rushing" influenza,
Just taken for a mensa,
Most certainly will cleanse a'
Your system, man.
It has the knack to stick, too—
'Twould surely turn "Old Nick" blue
And draw his toenails quick through
His diaphragm.
No power can avail, man,
To drive him from the trail, man;
The patent drugs for sale man,
Can never cure.
He comes against your will, man,
And sneaks around to kill, man;
The rippling of his rill, man,
Is never pure.

It droppeth like the rain, man,
Extracted by the pain, man,
And driveth one insane, man,
To think of it.
It robs us of our food, man,
And freezes up our blood, man—
And sleep! Nary a nod, man,
Or wink of it.
The old world it's been tearing—
Now we must have a hearing;
It crossed the strait of Behring—
Yes, bound to win.
Ah! now it overtakes me,
The shivering that shakes me
Is one that surely makes the
Whole world akin.
Across from coast to coast, sir,
You wander like a ghost, sir;
Every one can boast(?), sir,
Of having you.
You strike at high and lowly,
The wicked and the holy,
The poor, and they who roll thee,
Fifth avenue!

No doubt our friend bold "Fairman",
And also John his chairman,
Are pulling out their hair (?), man,
And looking wild.
If influenza has them,
My writing will not please them;
So, Oscar, pray don't tease them
Or get them riled.
Gu'tchew! gu'tchew! gu'tchew! man;
"Good day, mar ha u diugh, man;
'Sda chuin [B]neanaib na shruth, man,
Le-uiske beatha."
That's what I hear around me
Wherever Celtic sound be,
And also, O confound thee,
America!

FOOTNOTE:

[B] Water spring.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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