BALLAD OF THE BACK ROAD FARMER

Ah me, my bones do throb and ache – I think sometimes that they will break.

My joints they seem to be filled with glue, caused by that bad old devil, flu.

It sneaked up on me, some days ago,

It hit me hard and laid me low,

With misery inside and out, and now I’m thin, though once was stout.

It made me stupid as a dunce, it made me work both ways at once.

And Sarah’s grub, that tastes so good, might just as well be made of wood,

There’s nothing now with any taste, and pie might just as well be paste.

My good wife hated it, I know, for Sarah had to shovel snow.

She did the chores and fed the stock, and cleaned the barn and wound the clock.

She stoked the stoves and carried wood, and tended me as best she could.

But now she says she must rest her feet, and I must get up off my seat

And dress up warm to go outdoors and take my turn at doing chores.

She’s looking pale and maybe she has gone and got the bug from me.

So now I wonder what I’ll do if Sarah should come down with the flu.

One thing, we’ll need a better track from kitchen to the place out back.

And if she’s weaker than a dog we’ll need another catalogue. – H.M. Self, Bancroft.