Plague poetry transcends decades of health: A glimpse into the Black Death

“Ring around the rosie,
Pocket full of poesy,
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.”

Sound familiar? Probably because you have either seen kids singing along to and playing this tune with their friends, or you’ve been a part of it. But did you know that the jingle was actually talking about the bubonic plague — Or as some refer to it as the “Black Death?”

Welcome to another session of Poems with Anab, where I take you on short trip to read over a few poems when the bubonic plague was in the air.

The Black Death in 1348 led to one of the most dramatic periods of economic and social change in history.

Most of the poems written about the bubonic plague are very lengthy, so I will present you with two examples and highly encourage you to search up some more.

”Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss;

This world uncertain is;

Fond are life's lustful joys;

Death proves them all but toys;

None from his darts can fly;

I am sick, I must die.

    Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,

Gold cannot buy you health;

Physic himself must fade.

All things to end are made,

The plague full swift goes by;

I am sick, I must die.

    Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower

Which wrinkles will devour;

Brightness falls from the air;

Queens have died young and fair;

Dust hath closed Helen's eye.

I am sick, I must die.

    Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave,

Worms feed on Hector brave;

Swords may not fight with fate,

Earth still holds open her gate.

"Come, come!" the bells do cry.

I am sick, I must die.

    Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness

Tasteth death's bitterness;

Hell's executioner

Hath no ears for to hear

What vain art can reply.

I am sick, I must die.

    Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste, therefore, each degree,

To welcome destiny;

Heaven is our heritage,

Earth but a player's stage;

Mount we unto the sky.

I am sick, I must die.

    Lord, have mercy on us!”

— A Litany in Time of Plague

Thomas Nashe

The second poem I will be presenting is rather long, but definitely worth reading into.

“London now smokes with vapors that arise 

From his foule sweat, himselfe he so bestirres : 

'Cast out your dead!' the carcase-carrier cries, 

Which he by heapes in groundlesse graves interres.— 

Now like to bees in summer's heate from hives, 

Out flie the citizens, some here, some there; 

Some all alone, and others with their wives: 

With wives and children some flie, all for feare ! 

Here stands a watch, with guard of partizans, 

To stoppe their passages, or to or fro, 

As if they were not men, nor Christians, 

But fiends or monsters, murdering as they go. 

Each village, free, now stands upon her guard, 

None must have harbour in them but their owne; 

And as for life and death all watch and ward, 

And flie for life (as death) the man unknowne ! 

Here crie the parents for their children's death, 

There howle the children for the parents' losse, 

And often die as they are drawing breath 

To crie for their but now inflicted crosse. 

The last survivor of a familie 

Which yesterday, perhaps, were all in health, 

Now dies to beare his fellowes companie, 

And for a grave for all gives all their wealth. 

The London lanes (thereby themselves to save) 

Did vomit out their undigested dead, 

Who by cart-loads are carried to the grave ; 

For all these lanes with folke were overfed. 

The king himselfe (O wretched times the while !) 

From place to place himselfe did flie, 

Which from himselfe himselfe did seek t' exile, 

Who (as amaz'd) not safe knew where to lie. 

For hardly could one man another meete 

That in his bosom brought not odious death ; 

It was confusion but a friend to greet, 

For, like a fiend, he banned with his breath. 

Now fall the people unto publike fast, 

And all assemble in the church to pray ; 

Early and late their soules there take repast, 

As if preparing for a later day. 

The pastors now steep all their words in brine, 

With ' woe, woe, woe,'—and nought is heard but woe 

' Woe and alas!' (they say) 'the powers divine 

' Are bent mankind, for shine, to overthrow ! 

'Repent, repent,' (like Jonas, now they crie) 

' Ye men of England ! O repent, repent, 

To see if ye maie move pittie's eye 

To look upon you ere you quite be spent.' 

And oft while he breathes out these bitter words, 

He drawing breath draws in more bitter bane ; 

For now the aire no aire, but death affords, 

And lights of art (for helpe) were in the wane. 

The ceremonie at their burialls 

Is' ashes but to ashes, dust to dust;' 

Nay, not so much ; for strait the pitman falls 

(If he can stand) to hide them as he must. 

But if the pitman have not so much sense 

To see nor feele which way the winde doth sit, 

To take the same, he hardly comes from thence, 

But for himself, perhaps, he makes the pit. 

For look how leaves in autumn from the tree 

With wind do fall, whose heaps fill holes in ground; 

So might ye with the plague's breath people see 

Fall by great heaps and fill up holes profound. 

No holy turf was left to hide the head 

Of holiest men ; but most unhallow'd grounds, 

Ditches, and highwaies, must receive the dead, 

The dead (ah, woe the while !) so o'er abound. 

Time never knew, since he begunne his houres, 

(For aught we reade) a plague so long remaine 

In any citie as this plague of ours ; 

For now six yeares in London it hath laine. 

But thou in whose high hand all hearts are held, 

Convert us, and from us this plague avert; 

So sin shall yield to grace, and grace shall yield 

The giver glory for so dear desert. 

In few, what should I say ? the best are nought 

That breathe, since man first breathing did rebell: 

The best that breathe are worse than may be thought 

If thought can thinke, the best can do but well: 

For none doth well on earth but such as will 

Confesse, with griefe, they do exceeding ill.”

— The Triumph Of Death

Sir John Davies