_On falling a victim to influenza while on holiday._
Mercy me! is this the way
That I maun spen' ma holiday?
Groanin' wi' pains in legs an' back,
Ma reason fairly on the rack?
The sun beats warm upon the plain,
An' yet I'm shiverin' tae the bane;
Stounin' pains gang thro' ma heid,
Makin' me wish that I was deid.
Ma nose is rinnin' like a stream;
Blear't an' a'most blin' ma e'en;
Within ma throat the microbes rife
Are cuttin' chords wi' roostit knife.
There's no a joint in a' ma frame
But what has got an achin' pain;
The sicht o' meat fair mak's me grue;
A thoosan' curses on the flu'!