ODE TO ST. SWITHIN.

"The rain it raineth every day."

THE Dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
On ev'ry window-frame hang beaded damps
Like rows of small illumination lamps,
To celebrate the Jubilee of Showers!
A constant sprinkle patters from all leaves,
The very Dryads are not dry, but soppers,
And from the Houses' eaves
Tumble eaves-droppers.

The hundred clerks that live along the street, Bondsmen to mercantile and city schemers, With squashing, sloshing, and galloshing feet, Go paddling, paddling, through the wet, like steamers,

Each hurrying to earn the daily stipend shade of green,

Umbrellas pass of

every

And now and then a crimson one is seen,

Like an Umbrella ripened.

Over the way a wagon

Stands with six smoking horses, shrinking, blink

ing,

While in the George and Dragon

The man is keeping himself dry — and drinking! The Butcher's boy skulks underneath his tray, Hats shine-shoes don't- and down droop collars,

And one blue Parasol cries all the way

To school, in company with four small scholars!

Unhappy is the man to-day who rides,
Making his journey sloppier, not shorter;
Ay, there they go, a dozen of outsides,
Performing on "a Stage with real water!"
A dripping pauper crawls along the way,
The only real willing out-of-doorer,

And says, or seems to say,

"Well, I am poor enough —but here's a pourer !"

The scene in water colors thus I paint,
Is your own Festival, you Sloppy Saint!
Mother of all the Family of Rainers!
Saint of the Soakers!

Making all people croakers,

Like frogs in swampy marshes, and complainers! And why you mizzle forty days together,

Giving the earth your water-soup to sup,

I marvel Why such wet, mysterious weather? I wish you'd clear it up!

Why cast such cruel dampers

On pretty Pic Nics, and against all wishes

Set the cold ducks a-swimming in the hampers,
And volunteer, unasked, to wash the dishes?
Why drive the Nymphs from the selected spot,
To cling like lady-birds around a tree
Why spoil a Gipsy party at their tea,
By throwing your cold water upon hot?

Cannot a rural maiden, or a man,

Seek Hornsey-Wood by invitation, sipping
Their green with Pan,

But souse you come, and show their Pan all dripping!

Why upon snow-white tablecloths and sheets, That do not wait, or want a second washing, Come squashing?

Why task yourself to lay the dust in streets, As if there were no Water-Cart contractors, No pot-boys spilling beer, no shop-boys ruddy Spooning out puddles muddy,

Milkmaids, and other slopping benefactors!

A Queen you are, raining in your own right,
Yet oh! how little flattered by report!

Even by those that seek the Court,

Pelted with every term of spleen and spite. Folks rail and swear at you in every place; They say you are a creature of no bowel; They say you 're always washing Nature's face, And that you then supply her,

With nothing drier,

Than some old wringing cloud by way of towel! The whole town wants you ducked, just as you duck it,

They wish you on your own mud porridge suppered,

They hope that you may kick your own big bucket,

Or in your water-butt go souse! heels up'ard! They are, in short, so weary of your drizzle, They'd spill the water in your veins to stop it Be warned! You are too partial to a mizzle Pray drop it!

-

THE SCHOOLMASTER'S MOTTO.

"The Admiral compelled them all to strike.".

-LIFE OF

You shall soon see there's nothing to jeer at,
Master Marsh, most audacious of boys!
Come!"Palmam qui meruit ferat!"

So this morn in the midst of the Psalm,
The Miss Siffkins's school you must leer at,
You're complained of- Sir! hold out your
palm

-

There! “Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

VOL. III.

12

You wilful young rebel, and dunce!

This offence all your sins shall appear at,
You shall have a good caning at once
There!

"Palmam qui meruit ferat!'

You are backward, you know, in each verb, And your pronouns you are not more clear at, But you 're forward enough to disturb

"Palmam qui meruit ferat!"

You said Master Twigg stole the plums,
When the orchard he never was near at,
I'll not punish wrong fingers or thumbs
There! "Palmam qui meruit ferat!"

You make Master Taylor your butt,
And this morning his face you threw beer at,
And you struck him do you like a cut?
There!"Palmam qui meruit ferat!".

Little Biddle you likewise distress,
You are always his hair, or his ear at,—
He's my Opt, Sir, and you are my Pess:
There!"Palmam qui meruit ferat!"

Then you had a pitched fight with young Rouse, An offence I am always severe at !

You discredit to Cicero-House!

There!

"Palmam qui meruit ferat!"