 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
RHEUMATISM.
Burns had the toothache,—but, O cracky!
D'ye ever have a “crick in the back,” eh?
Or sweet sciatic' to attack ye,
Boring your hip?
Or rheumatism sharp to rack ye
With twisting grip?
D'ye ever have a “crick in the back,” eh?
Or sweet sciatic' to attack ye,
Boring your hip?
Or rheumatism sharp to rack ye
With twisting grip?
Toothache, forsooth, is bad enough,
But there's a remedy, tho' rough;
Step to the dentist in a huff,
Be prompt and bold;
Sit down, and cry, “Come on, Macduff,”
With iron cold!
But there's a remedy, tho' rough;
Step to the dentist in a huff,
Be prompt and bold;
Sit down, and cry, “Come on, Macduff,”
With iron cold!
One gentle wrench! and all is done;
'Tis finished, even while begun,
And tho' you thought earth, moon, and sun
Had smashed together,
You know that you've the victory won,
And all's fair weather.
'Tis finished, even while begun,
And tho' you thought earth, moon, and sun
Had smashed together,
You know that you've the victory won,
And all's fair weather.
But mark the man who, hale and strong,
Would willing drive his work along,
For work drives him; a whistle, song,
His toil beguiles;
His cattle fear not gad or thong,—
Their master smiles.
Would willing drive his work along,
For work drives him; a whistle, song,
His toil beguiles;
His cattle fear not gad or thong,—
Their master smiles.
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But, all at once, ascends a howl!
He looks as solemn as an owl;
His smiles depart; a painful scowl
Steals o'er his phiz;
Perhaps his language isn't foul,—
Perhaps it is.
He looks as solemn as an owl;
His smiles depart; a painful scowl
Steals o'er his phiz;
Perhaps his language isn't foul,—
Perhaps it is.
What can have wrought a change so quick,
And turned the well man to the sick,
His spine into a rigid stick
That breaks to bend?
He's stricken with the woful “crick”
The Furies send.
And turned the well man to the sick,
His spine into a rigid stick
That breaks to bend?
He's stricken with the woful “crick”
The Furies send.
With awful dignity, and slow,
He seeks the crib his cattle know;
Unyokes them; harshly bids them, Go!—
Thwack! there—go faster;
While in-doors, grappling with the foe,
Retires the master.
He seeks the crib his cattle know;
Unyokes them; harshly bids them, Go!—
Thwack! there—go faster;
While in-doors, grappling with the foe,
Retires the master.
First, brandy out of apples fried,
Hot with red pepper, is applied;
“Mustang,” “Pain-killer” next is tried,
Without avail;
Some old-wives' salve, hot shovel dried,—
In turn to fail.
Hot with red pepper, is applied;
“Mustang,” “Pain-killer” next is tried,
Without avail;
Some old-wives' salve, hot shovel dried,—
In turn to fail.
O, see him, whom no thing could frighten,
Proud as a drover safe at Brighton!
Now, best of markets could not lighten
His aggravations;
His back scored like the rock at Dighton,
By “applications.”
Proud as a drover safe at Brighton!
Now, best of markets could not lighten
His aggravations;
His back scored like the rock at Dighton,
By “applications.”
He rises slowly from his chair,
Remains half bent a moment;—there!
Now comes the pinch,—take care!—take care!
Just grin, and go it!
He straightens up with, Oh!—I—swear!
As saith the poet.
Remains half bent a moment;—there!
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Just grin, and go it!
He straightens up with, Oh!—I—swear!
As saith the poet.
His pitying, sympathetic bride
Tries hard a quiet smile to hide;
His guileless infants open wide
Their wondering eyes,
To see their lofty Union “slide,”
Holding his thighs.
Tries hard a quiet smile to hide;
His guileless infants open wide
Their wondering eyes,
To see their lofty Union “slide,”
Holding his thighs.
O for the heart of him of old
Who high-priced pottage made and sold!
Who wrestled with the angel, bold,
Until the morning;
Sciatic, and the angel's hold,
The whole time scorning.
Who high-priced pottage made and sold!
Who wrestled with the angel, bold,
Until the morning;
Sciatic, and the angel's hold,
The whole time scorning.
“I will not let thee go,” he said,
“Except thou bless me.” Reader, dread,
Give me your blessing; and if led
By human-ism,
Attribute aught amiss you've read
To Rheumatism.
“Except thou bless me.” Reader, dread,
Give me your blessing; and if led
By human-ism,
Attribute aught amiss you've read
To Rheumatism.
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |