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.