THE BURDEN OF BACILLUS.
Is there no one to protect us, is existence then a sin,
That we're worried here in London and in Paris and Berlin?
We would live at peace with all men, but "Destroy them!" is the cry,
Physiological assassins are not happy till we die.
With the rights of man acknowledged, can you wonder that we squirm
At the endless persecution of the much-maltreated germ.
We are ta'en from home and hearthstone, from the newly-wedded bride,
To be looked at by cold optics on a microscopic slide;
We are boiled and stewed together, and they never think it hurts;
We're injected into rabbits by those hypodermic squirts:
Never safe, although so very insignificant in size,
There's no peace for poor Bacillus, so it seems, until he dies.
It is strange to think how men lived in the days of long ago,
When the fact of our existence they had never chanced to know.
If the scientific ghouls are right who hunt us to the death,
Those who came before them surely had expired ere they drew breath:
We were there in those old ages, thriving in our youthful bloom;
Then there was no KOCH or PASTEUR bent on compassing our doom.
Men humanity are preaching, and philanthropists elate
Point out he who injures horses shall be punished by the State;
Dogs are carefully protected, likewise the domestic cats,
Possibly kind-hearted people would not draw the line at rats:
If all that be right and proper, why then persecute and kill us?
Lo! the age's foremost martyr is the vilified Bacillus!