Partingtonian patchwork Blifkins the martyr : the domestic trials of a model husband. The modern syntax : Dr. Spooner's experiences in search of the delectable. Partington papers : strippings of the warm milk of human kindness. New and old dips from an unambitious inkstand. Humorous, eccentric, rhythmical |
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A COUNTRY RAINY DAY. |
 | Partingtonian patchwork |  |
290
A COUNTRY RAINY DAY.
Up from the river
sweeps the rain,
Over the field and over the wood,
And the fretful wind, with a note of pain,
Sobs and murmurs a sad refrain,
Responsive to the angry flood.
Over the field and over the wood,
And the fretful wind, with a note of pain,
Sobs and murmurs a sad refrain,
Responsive to the angry flood.
O, the sight for impatient eyes,
Scanning the desolate, dreary day,
With its drenchéd earth and leaden skies,
To see the misty clouds arise
That shroud the hills there far away.
Scanning the desolate, dreary day,
With its drenchéd earth and leaden skies,
To see the misty clouds arise
That shroud the hills there far away.
I hear the plashing torrent pour,
And listen with a sense of dread;
There's bodily misery in the roar,
That wakens mental torture sore,
Till all of sweet content has fled.
And listen with a sense of dread;
There's bodily misery in the roar,
That wakens mental torture sore,
Till all of sweet content has fled.
291
Drip and drip from yonder eaves—
The whole day long 'tis dripping there!
There's a shivering sound in all the leaves,
And the feeling the wakeful soul receives
Is one akin to deep despair.
The whole day long 'tis dripping there!
There's a shivering sound in all the leaves,
And the feeling the wakeful soul receives
Is one akin to deep despair.
The poultry in the barn-yard stand,
Damp and cheerless, with drooping quills;
They see no promise in all the land,
Or joy that they can understand
Through this grand culminate of ills.
Damp and cheerless, with drooping quills;
They see no promise in all the land,
Or joy that they can understand
Through this grand culminate of ills.
That crower never will crow again,
That hen never exalt her lay;
Their ardor is damped by the falling rain,
And they seem to feel, it is very plain,
Disgusted with the sloppy day.
That hen never exalt her lay;
Their ardor is damped by the falling rain,
And they seem to feel, it is very plain,
Disgusted with the sloppy day.
The swallows seek the sheltered place,
High up there on the beams of the barn
And “touch and go” they flit their race,
Showing their young, with tender grace,
The useful lesson they must “larn.”
High up there on the beams of the barn
And “touch and go” they flit their race,
Showing their young, with tender grace,
The useful lesson they must “larn.”
The cattle on the barn-floor smoke,
—A practice they are here allowed—
While all the boys, unhindered, joke,
And “Uncle George” puts in his spoke,
The jolliest among the crowd.
—A practice they are here allowed—
While all the boys, unhindered, joke,
And “Uncle George” puts in his spoke,
The jolliest among the crowd.
He cares not though the day be wet;
“What is the use,” he says, “to cry?
'Twill be fair weather, some time, yet—
'Tis not a bit of use to fret,
Let the weather be wet or dry.”
“What is the use,” he says, “to cry?
292
'Tis not a bit of use to fret,
Let the weather be wet or dry.”
The croakers indoors sadly growl
At hopes thus gloomily overeast;
The answering wind sets up a howl,
And the rain comes down like a water-fowl,
Struck by the north-east chilling blast.
At hopes thus gloomily overeast;
The answering wind sets up a howl,
And the rain comes down like a water-fowl,
Struck by the north-east chilling blast.
I hear the struggling of the spout,
As it outpours its yeasty flood;
I hear the hay-press workers shout,
And see Hodge driving the cattle out
Through pools of liquefying mud.
As it outpours its yeasty flood;
I hear the hay-press workers shout,
And see Hodge driving the cattle out
Through pools of liquefying mud.
O Patience! what a virtue thou!
I feel thy need in all my bones;
John Bunyan yonder in the slough
Was no worse off than I am now,
Hearing these angry tempest tones.
I feel thy need in all my bones;
John Bunyan yonder in the slough
Was no worse off than I am now,
Hearing these angry tempest tones.
Roar out, ye children on the stair,
And let your voices do their best;
We'll make believe the day is fair,
And try to mitigate despair,
Though all our trying prove a jest.
And let your voices do their best;
We'll make believe the day is fair,
And try to mitigate despair,
Though all our trying prove a jest.
Alas! alas! 'tis even so;
We cannot banish this one pain;
The frisky winds must have their blow,
And all the racks must overflow,
That hold the bottles of the rain.
We cannot banish this one pain;
The frisky winds must have their blow,
And all the racks must overflow,
That hold the bottles of the rain.
| Partingtonian patchwork | |