1

I am monarch of troubles a host,
With my power there is none may compete
From the pillow all down to the post,
I am lord of the blanket and sheet.
O sickness! but where are the charms
That doctors can see in thy face,
Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place.

2

I am far from the dining room baits,
I must finish my fasting alone,
Never hear the sweet clatter of plates,
I have not even one of my own.
My nurses go downstairs to carve
The dishes that I may not see;
They are so unaccustomed to starve,
They think starving is nothing to me.

3

Pig — Ven'son — and Poultry — all juice
So divine when bestowed within men,
O had I the wings of a Goose
How soon would I taste them again!
My sorrows I then might assuage
With apple sauce sweet to the eye;
Might feast on the onions and sage,
And be cheered by a pudding or pie.

4

(Not parodied. [ i.e., as in Cowper ])

5

Ye winds as ye kitchen-wards swell,
Convey through the chinks of my door,
Some cordial and savoury smell
Of the dishes I carve at no more.
My friends — is there one asks to send
Some nice little tid-bit to me?
O tell me I have such a friend
Though the tid-bit I never may see.

6

How poor is a drink from the well
Compared with a glass of good beer;
But water is all that may dwell
With the white-labelled pill-boxes here.
When I think of a London beef steak,
I seem to be eating one there;
But alas, in a moment I wake
To find toast and water my fare.

7

But the doctor is gone to his nest,
The nurse is asleep in her chair;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I for my pillow prepare.
There is hunger in every place,
And if hunger — encouraging thought!
But give to my figure fresh grace
'Twill reconcile me to my lot.