May 31, 1865. Vol. 1. No. 35. Page 1
I know that mortal flesh is heir
To many a hard disease;
And Doctors’ pills are death on bills--
Lord! How colds make one sneeze!
But we should strive with fortitude
To bend beneath the blows,
And emulate the ancient Job—
Zounds! There’s my precious nose!
A jumping tooth, or headache sick,
Are ails we hold in dread.
But these I never have, in lieu,
A bad cold in my head!
To spend one’s time ‘twixt handkerchief
And stuff, is far from fun;
They say ”time” flies; ’tis also true
That noses often “run.”
That blessed organ I have tweaked
Until ‘tis worse than sore;
My head feels like a kettle-drum,
And nights, oh, how I snore!
‘Tis but a week ago my host,
For snoring, turned me off;
Oh, if I’d only had, instead,
Consumption’s dreary cough!
And with this cold I’m worrying,
And storing miseries;
I sometimes fear my life will end
In one continued sneeze!