AFTER HOOD

SONG OF THE SHEET
THE DRIPPING SHEET

This sheet wrung out of cold or tepid water is thrown around the body. Quick rubbing follows, succeeded by the same operation with a dry sheet. Its operation is truly shocking. Dress after to prevent remarks.

WITH nerves all shattered and worn,

With shouts terrific and loud,

A patient stood in a cold wet sheet—

A Grindrod's patent shroud.

Wet, wet, wet,

In douche and spray and sleet,

And still, with a voice I shall never forget,

He sang the song of the sheet.

"Drip, drip, drip,

Dashing, and splashing, and dipping;

And drip, drip, drip,

Till your fat all melts to dripping.

It's oh, for dry deserts afar,

Or let me rather endure

Curing with salt in a family jar,

If this is the water cure.

"Rub, rub, rub,

He'll rub away life and limb;

Rub, rub, rub

It seems to be fun for him.

Sheeted from head to foot,

I'd rather be covered with dirt;

I'll give you the sheet and the blankets to boot,

If you'll only give me my shirt.

"Oh, men, with arms and hands,

Oh, men, with legs and shins,

It is not the sheet you're wearing out,

But human creatures' skins.

Rub, rub, rub,

Body, and legs, and feet;

Rubbing at once with a double rub,

A skin as well as a sheet.

"My wife will see me no more—

She'll see the bone of her bone,

But never will see the flesh of her flesh,

For I'll have no flesh of my own.

The little that was my own,

They won't allow me to keep;

It's a pity that flesh should be so dear,

And water so very cheap.

"Pack, pack, pack,

Whenever your spirit flags,

You're doomed by hydropathic laws

To be packed in cold water rags;

Rolled up on bed or on floor,

Or sweated to death in a chair;

But my chairman's rank—my shadow I'd thank

For taking my place in there.

"Slop, slop, slop,

Never a moment of time;

Slop, slop, slop,

Slackened like mason's lime.

Stand and freeze and steam—

Steam or freeze and stand;

I wish those friends had their tongues benumbed,

That told me to leave dry land.

"Up, up, up,

In the morn before daylight,

The bathman cries 'Get up,'

(I wish he were up for a fight).

While underneath the eaves,

The dry snug swallows cling;

But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs,

And see if they'll come next spring.

"Oh! oh! it stops my breath,

(He calls it short and sweet),

Could they hear me underneath

I'll shout them from the street!

He says that in half an hour

A different man I'll feel;

That I'll jump half over the moon and want

To walk into a meal!

"I feel more nerve and power,

And less of terror and grief;

I'm thinking now of love and hope—

And now of mutton and beef.

This glorious scene will rouse my heart,

Oh, who would lie in bed?

I cannot stop, but jump and hop,

Going like needle and thread."

With buoyant spirit upborne,

With cheeks both healthy and red,

The same man ran up the Malvern Crags,

Pitying those in bed.

Trip, trip, trip,

Oh, life with health is sweet;

And still in a voice both strong and quick,

Would that its tones could reach the sick,

He sang the Song of the Sheet.

Anonymous.