[From Manxiana, 1870]

DON'T LEAD ME THROUGH THE BOG.

Woe's me that I've a diploma,
A doctor of repute;
From far and near they trouble me,
I can't their ills dispute.

This morning, ere the sun was up,
And cold and raw the air,
A man came from the mountain height,
His son was dying there.

So, nolens volens, I must go,
And, toiling, climb the hill,
Through bog and mire, and slushing dirt,
To minister my pill.

Through bog I went, and bogged I was,
And could not well get out,
For as the dad was helping me,
Himself was bogged about.

So sinking, sinking, down we sank,
Seemed sinking down to die,
Till an India, thought across me came,
Of Hattee* in like ply;

Off, off my coat I quickly took,
And up my, one leg raised;
Coat under foot I mounted up,
Said dad, " Oh, God be praised! "

The son I saw — he's living now;
We passed safe through the fog.
Next time we mount o'er Snaefell's brow,
Don't lead me through the bog.

For all the deaths that men do die,
Most dreadful this of all,
Down sinking in a living tomb,
Black bog your funeral pall.

* Bengali for "Elephant."