 | The vagabonds, and other poems |  |
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THE SUMMER SQUALL.
“Goodness gracious! what's the matter?
What a clamor, what a clatter!
Gracious goodness! was there ever
Such a terrible—I never!
Run and shut the chamber windows!
Jenny, keep the children in-doors!
The clothes upon the line go dancing—
Where 's the basket? Bring the pans in!
O dear!” For now the rain is coming;
You hear the chimney swallows drumming,
With a mighty fuss and flutter,
While the chimneys moan and mutter;
And see! the crumbled soot is flying
All over the pork that Jane was frying.
What a clamor, what a clatter!
Gracious goodness! was there ever
Such a terrible—I never!
Run and shut the chamber windows!
Jenny, keep the children in-doors!
The clothes upon the line go dancing—
Where 's the basket? Bring the pans in!
O dear!” For now the rain is coming;
You hear the chimney swallows drumming,
With a mighty fuss and flutter,
While the chimneys moan and mutter;
And see! the crumbled soot is flying
All over the pork that Jane was frying.
What a clamor, what a clatter!
The swift, slant rain begins to patter;
The geese they cackle, cow-bells rattle,
The pelted and affrighted cattle,
Across the pasture, helter-skelter,
Run to the nearest trees for shelter;
The old hen calls her skulking chickens;
The fowls fly home; the darkness thickens;
The roadside maples twist and swing,
The barn-door flaps a broken wing;
The old well-pail sets out to travel,
And drags the chain across the gravel;
In vain the farmer's wife is trying
To catch the clothes as they are flying;
Nine new tin pans are bruised and battered,
And all about the door-yard scattered;
And thicker, thicker, faster, faster,
Come tumult, tempest, and disaster.
The swift, slant rain begins to patter;
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The pelted and affrighted cattle,
Across the pasture, helter-skelter,
Run to the nearest trees for shelter;
The old hen calls her skulking chickens;
The fowls fly home; the darkness thickens;
The roadside maples twist and swing,
The barn-door flaps a broken wing;
The old well-pail sets out to travel,
And drags the chain across the gravel;
In vain the farmer's wife is trying
To catch the clothes as they are flying;
Nine new tin pans are bruised and battered,
And all about the door-yard scattered;
And thicker, thicker, faster, faster,
Come tumult, tempest, and disaster.
The wind has blown the haycocks over;
The rain has spoiled the unraked clover;
With half a load the horses hurry,
And one half—flung on in the flurry,
Invisible pitchforks tearing, tossing—
Was blown into the creek in crossing;
And thicker, thicker, faster, faster,
Come whirlwind, tempest, and disaster.
The rain has spoiled the unraked clover;
With half a load the horses hurry,
And one half—flung on in the flurry,
Invisible pitchforks tearing, tossing—
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And thicker, thicker, faster, faster,
Come whirlwind, tempest, and disaster.
Now, all without the storm is roaring,
The house is shut, the rain is pouring;
Incessantly its fury lashes
The roof, the clapboards, and the sashes;
The fowls have gone to roost at noon,
We 'll have the candles lighted soon.
In flies the door,—the farmer enters
Dripping and drenching from his adventures;
Finds Jenny sighing, baby crying,
The frightened children hushed, and lying
Huddled upon the bed together;
Mother storming, like the weather;
With pans, and chairs, and baskets, which in
Wet confusion crowd the kitchen.
The house is shut, the rain is pouring;
Incessantly its fury lashes
The roof, the clapboards, and the sashes;
The fowls have gone to roost at noon,
We 'll have the candles lighted soon.
In flies the door,—the farmer enters
Dripping and drenching from his adventures;
Finds Jenny sighing, baby crying,
The frightened children hushed, and lying
Huddled upon the bed together;
Mother storming, like the weather;
With pans, and chairs, and baskets, which in
Wet confusion crowd the kitchen.
But Hugh is not the man to grieve;
He shakes his hat, and strokes his sleeve,
And laughs, and jests, and wrings his blouse:—
His very presence in the house
Dispels like sunshine the bewildering
And awful gloom that wrapped the children.
Old Farmer Hugh! the whole world through,
I find no nobler soul than you!
A heart to welcome every comer,
Alike the Winter and the Summer.
When Fortune, with her fickle chances,
Now smiles, now frowns, retreats, advances,
To make poor mortals mourn the loss of her,
You, trustful heart and true philosopher,
Securely centred in your station,
Yourself the pivot of gyration,
Look forth serenely patient, seeing
All things come round to your true being.
He shakes his hat, and strokes his sleeve,
And laughs, and jests, and wrings his blouse:—
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Dispels like sunshine the bewildering
And awful gloom that wrapped the children.
Old Farmer Hugh! the whole world through,
I find no nobler soul than you!
A heart to welcome every comer,
Alike the Winter and the Summer.
When Fortune, with her fickle chances,
Now smiles, now frowns, retreats, advances,
To make poor mortals mourn the loss of her,
You, trustful heart and true philosopher,
Securely centred in your station,
Yourself the pivot of gyration,
Look forth serenely patient, seeing
All things come round to your true being.
O thus, like you, when sudden squalls
Of angry fortune strike my walls,
Spoil expectation's unraked clover,
And blow my hopes like haycocks over,—
When storm and darkness, wild, uncertain,
Deluge my sky with their black curtain,—
O then, like you, brave Farmer Hugh!
May I, with vision clear and true,
Behold, beyond each transient sorrow,
The gleam and gladness of to-morrow.
Of angry fortune strike my walls,
Spoil expectation's unraked clover,
And blow my hopes like haycocks over,—
When storm and darkness, wild, uncertain,
Deluge my sky with their black curtain,—
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May I, with vision clear and true,
Behold, beyond each transient sorrow,
The gleam and gladness of to-morrow.
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