  (N.B.—This American song and dance can only be performed OH, come, my love, where the fog lies thick, Down in the shadow where the microbes grow; We shall catch Na Nonna if we’re only quick, Down in the shadow where the microbes grow; For our bower is built on London clay, Where the gray mist hangs from the dawn of day, And the gay young germs of neuralgia play Down in the shadow where the microbes grow. Oh, come, my love, where the sun ne’er smirks, Down in the shadow where the microbes grow; To the wild wet waste where consumption lurks— Down in the shadow where the microbes grow. Where the cough makes music, and the bronchial wheeze Replies to the echo of the sniff and sneeze, And asthma flirts with the cut-throat breeze, Down in the shadow where the microbes grow. Oh, come, my love, and abide with me, Down in the shadow where the microbes grow; Where the weathercock always points N.E., Down in the shadow where the microbes grow; Where the damp drips dank down the dismal wall, And the fungi flourish in the mildewed hall, And the undertaker is the lord of all, Down in the shadow where the microbes grow. |
|
