Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton :: :: University of Virginia Library

With fingers extended and stiff,
With head all aching and hot,
An old man sat in a cushioned chair
Supporting his weary foot.
Ache—ache—ache,
With remedies and without,
And his voice a dolorous pitch did take,
As he sang the song of the gout.

Ache—ache—ache,
In the silent noon of night;
Ache—ache—ache,
In the bright sun's pleasing light.
And it's oh! to be a savage
Along with the Indian nation,
Where gout has never dared to come,
If this is civilization.

Ache—ache—ache,
Till the brain begins to swim;
Ache—ache—ache,
Till the eyelids are heavy and dim.
Pills and aloes and salts,
Salts and aloes and pills,
Till over sal-nitre I fall asleep,
To dream of medicinal rills.

O doctor, with balsam rare!
O surgeon, with lancet and knife!
It is not lancet or balsam I want,
I ask but for health and life.
Ache—ache—ache,
Longing and wishing for health,
Groaning away, with a treble groan,
My happiness, time, and wealth.

But why do I talk of health,
That phantom of florid hue?
I cannot grasp his lovely form,
Though 'tis ever before my view,
When awake and when asleep.
Alas! that health should be so dear,
And gout and dyspepsia so cheap.
Ache—ache—ache.

Ache—ache—ache
From weary chime to chime;
Ache—ache—ache,
As the schoolboy aches for crime.
Pills and aloes and salts,
Senna and rhubarb root,
Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary foot.

Ache—ache—ache,
In the dull December night;
Ache—ache—ache,
When the weather is warm and bright;
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows fly,
As if to show how healthy they,
And happier far, than I.

Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,
To see the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet.
Oh! for but one short hour
To feel as I used to feel
Before I knew the woes of gout,
With which I now must deal.

Oh! for but one short hour
However quick it flies,
No blessed leisure for happiness,
But only time for sighs.
A little walking would strengthen me,
But here I must remain
Through the long dreary winter months,
Till summer comes again.

With fingers extended and stiff,
With head all aching and hot,
An old man sat in his cushioned chair,
Supporting his weary foot.
Ache—ache—ache,
With remedies and without,
And his voice a dolorous song did make—
Oh! that the rich would a warning take
From this same song of the gout.

June 16, 1849.