Poem by Eugene Field

The Convalescent Gripster

The gods let slip that fiendish grip
    Upon me last week Sunday—
No fiercer storm than racked my form
    E'er swept the Bay of Fundy;
  But now, good-by
  To drugs, say I—
    Good-by to gnawing sorrow;
  I am up to-day,
  And, whoop, hooray!
    I'm going out to-morrow!

What aches and pain in bones and brain
    I had I need not mention;
It seemed to me such pangs must be
    Old Satan's own invention;
  Albeit I
  Was sure I'd die,
    The doctor reassured me—
  And, true enough,
  With his vile stuff,
    He ultimately cured me.

As there I lay in bed all day,
    How fair outside looked to me!
A smile so mild old Nature smiled
    It seemed to warm clean through me.
  In chastened mood
  The scene I viewed,
    Inventing, sadly solus,
  Fantastic rhymes
  Between the times
    I had to take a bolus.

Of quinine slugs and other drugs
    I guess I took a million—
Such drugs as serve to set each nerve
    To dancing a cotillon;
  The doctors say
  The only way
    To rout the grip instanter
  Is to pour in
  All kinds of sin—
    Similibus curantur!

'Twas hard; and yet I'll soon forget
    Those ills and cures distressing;
One's future lies 'neath gorgeous skies
    When one is convalescing!
  So now, good-by
  To drugs say I—
    Good-by, thou phantom Sorrow!
  I am up to-day,
  And, whoop, hooray!
    I'm going out to-morrow.

1. “The Old Homestead”
2. The Sleeping Child
3. Clare Market
4. A Paraphrase of Heine
5. The Straw Parlor

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