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Title: Neighbors' Advice To Invalids
Author: Sarah S. Mower [
More Titles by Mower]
Why sit you here, pining in languor and gloom?
Except you do something, you'll sink to the tomb;
Ah, where's the red roses that bloomed on your brow,
Where nothing but white ones are languishing now?
Go, learn of the red men, they certainly know,
They find healing plants, and will tell where they grow;
God gave them this knowledge; their skill is the best;
Make use of such means, they will surely be blest.
No poisonous minerals fill up his chest,
But herbs that will heal you when sick and distressed,
Designed by our Maker all pain to subdue,
Which tortures the frame where these antidotes grew.
O, shun the rude savage who roams through the wood,
With knowledge too scanty to choose wholesome food;
Thomsonians will help you, they'll heal your disease;
Emetics and numbers will soon give you ease.
The brave number one all disease can expel,
And make you exclaim, I am perfectly well;
All poisonous drugs in your system will die,
Each pain will take wings, and the calomel fly.
These hot-crops will kill you with pepper and steam,
Pork, mince pies and pancakes, hot puddings and cream;
They'll double your fever, dyspepsia and pain;
I beg you take warning; by thousands they've slain.
On boasting pretenders I'd now turn my back,
No longer I'd deal with that ignorant quack;
He cannot distinguish the heart from the brain,
King's evil or dropsy from pleurisy pain.
Apply to the man who is bred in our schools,
His drugs are examined by chemical rules;
Whatever he uses is put to the test;
I like to take analyzed medicine best.
His science trained eye your whole system will scan,
From him naught is hidden which preys upon man;
He'll find ev'ry pain, with its cause and effect,
Plain reason might teach you that he's most correct.
Oh, shun this deceiver, his motives are gain,
He oftener augments, than alleviates, pain;
His boasted attainments are nothing but show,
Put him with the rest, they'll just make a row.
He'll steal the warm crimson, that flows through your heart,
He'll haunt you with blisters and plasters that smart,
Torment you with setons, with leaches and cups,
His calomel poisons, the blood it corrupts.
Emetics reduce you, and tonics distress,
While morphine distracts you and seldom gives rest.
Now leave him, Oh, leave him! your life he'll not save;
Except you obey me, you'll sink to the grave.
Come, leave all the doctors; resort to the shops
Which peddle pills, balsams, elixirs and drops;
Each cures ev'ry malady whenever used,
Altho' by base slander they're greatly abus'd.
I hate these vile patents; they often make worse;
Hear my good advice, let your mother be nurse;
Ten thousand rare medical plants grow around.
Their ne'er failing virtues old women have found.
There's catfoot and mugwort, archangel and balm,
Possessing great virtues, and never do harm;
While spleenwort, and whiteweed, and hyssop, and sage,
Have cured the consumption in every stage.
Take saffron and goldthread, white poplar and rue,
They've cured the dyspepsia wherever they grew;
Use clover and nightshade, and drink wintergreen,
They'll cure the worst cancer that ever was seen.
But I have no faith in these simple herb teas
They never can lessen or cure a disease;
And do not take pills, nasty powders and drops,
Till you are filled up like the medical shops.
Still, something is needful, of that I am sure,
But I've the most faith in the cold water cure;
'Twill strengthen, invigorate, open the pores,
'Tis curing sick people by dozens and scores.
Don't wrap yourself up in that cold dripping sheet,
I always take cold, only wetting my feet;
Yet there is an agent which I would apply,
The red forked lightning which darts through the sky.
Old Franklin has tamed it and brought it to earth,
And men are now learning how much it is worth;
'Twill dart through the stomach, the heart, and the brain,
Each pore it will open and drive out the pain.
Come, quit all this fussing, take rich hearty food,
And soon, I assure you, your health will be good;
Leave your warm stifling beds, your soft cushioned chair,
Run ten miles a day in the cool healthful air.
If I went thus, moping and lounging about,
'Twould bring on dyspepsia, consumption, or gout;
Now here is good counsel, why will you be shy,
You'd much better take it than lie down and die.
[The end]
Sarah S. Mower's poem: Neighbors' Advice To Invalids
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