The Gout

That enemy—the gout, I ween, Of all such demons is most keen: Some clever people seem to think It is the treach’rousness of drink; But where’s there one who fain would bear Such agony for wine or beer, Or any other kind of cheer?— Stuff and all nonsense: yet, no doubt, Some drinks are feeders to the gout. Rare Doctor Jenner, whom we praise, Regarded not this foul disease; Or if he did, ’tis plain that he Could not invent a remedy. Oh! would he had devised a plan To extirpate the gout from man: Much praise would then ascend to Heaven For all the comfort he had given. But if man must for e’er endure (For lack of any kingly cure) To the world’s end this evil thing, I say—God grant unto the king, Or queen, or statesman, be who ’t may, A life no longer than a day!— For surely ’tis a sin to wish The gouty monster to a fish.

Would there were men, with wit enow, This nevious demon could subdue; I would, for one, bestir the stars To introduce them to famed Mars, To Jupiter, or Mercury,— (Together or alternately,)— That theirs may be felicity For evermore. And, farther still, I’d have their names engraven well Upon a diamond monument,— An everlasting testament,— Recording all their virtues on ’t— What they had done with liniment, Without it or with medicines.—

(Now, if I thought ’twere treach’rous wines, Rums, brandies, whiskies, or champagnes, Which set this venom in man’s veins, I’d have the sea drink all the trash. * * * Give me the bottles for to smash!— For not one dog shall e’er remain To give man such infernal pain.)—

And more than this—I’d have them driven Across the great concave of heaven, In chariots wrought of solid gold; Choice diamonds, rubies, gems untold, Should be inlaid about its sides; And flying horses (o’er their hides ’Boss’d bullion-trappings, chaste and neat) Should from their heads down to their feet Be clad with * * * *; That gods may envy those proud beings Who drove from man those evil things— The gout! the gout! the gout! the gout!— I turn again my muse about, And fancy yet I can’t refrain From lauding in the highest strain— (As ’twere—with organs, great in tone, Reverb’rating from zone to zone, And angels rivalling to intone Their universal notes of joy; Whilst all the hosts of heaven deploy In armour wrought by gods of grace, And shining through th’ ethereal space With so much splendour that ’tis meet One closed his eyes against the treat)— These men who could the cure complete.

Old Doctor Samuel said (I’m told)— A pyramid of solid gold, As high as heav’n—or higher still— For him who could the villain kill, Ought to be built upon a hill. Aye! thousands would improve the pen, In ecstasies, to praise the man, Or rhetorise in words of bliss— “To him perpetual happiness Should be awarded from on high, For ridding that dire enemy.” * * * Oh! what a song of joy I’d write If I could hear it said to-night— “The plaguy rogue was kill’d outright.” Alas! (I am most loath to state) I fear not one, so fortunate, Will ever be the poor man’s friend To bring this d——l to an end.