bo 
(SC) 
Oo 
THE MICROSCOPE. 
And now I find my money scarce; 
And honesty seems like a farce, 
For me to play. 
My patron saint, what shall I do 
To keep my business full in view, 
And make it pay. 
Suppose you send some sickness down 
Upon the people of this town, 
And round about; 
But don’t you let them know TI eall 
On you to help me in my thrall, 
And lift me out; 
Nor don’t you let it hit the poor 
That have not money, goods, nor store 
To pay the bill, 
For I have had enough of that; 
It never makes a doctor fat 
To cure or kill. 
But send it like a little rain, 
A headache or a little pain, 
To homes of wealth. 
I would take work of any kind, 
Of the body or of the mind 
To bring to health. 
Typhoid fever is pretty good; 
Malaria, or a lack of blood, 
Or anything: 
A broken bone I’d gladly take; 
A simple cramp or stomach-ache 
Would make me sing. 
A few old women with their ills, 
And lots of cash to pay their bills 
Would suit me much. 
I would stick to them to the end, 
To every want I would attend 
By sight or touch. 
