Page:Poems Cook.djvu/241

The rain fell in torrents—the wind roar'd along—
The watch-dog howl'd back to the rude, tempest song;
And we trembled, and fear'd lest the merriest set
Should be scared by that true English sunshine—the wet.

But, hark—what loud voices—what rumbling of wheels—
What stepping in puddles—what tragical "squeals!"
While close-tilted waggons and mud-spatter'd carts
Set down a rare cargo of happy young hearts.

What a dance was the first—with what pleasure we went
Down the middle and up, till our breathing was spent!
Though Musard might have shrugg'd at a bit of a strife
'Twixt the notes of the fiddle and key of the fife.

Our flooring was rugged, our sconces had rust;
There was falling of grease—there was raising of dust;
But Terpsichore publish'd a Morning Post "yarn"
Of the Almacks we held in the noble, old barn.

Then the rat-hunt—oh, mercy! we hear poets speak
Of the tug of fierce battle when "Greek joins with Greek;"
But war held as wild and as deadly a reign
When the terriers met the destroyers of grain.

The smith left his bellows—the miller his sack—
'Twas lucky that business grew suddenly slack:
The thatcher was there, and the thatcher's boy too,
And somehow, the butcher had nothing to do.

The Squire lent his stick and his voice to the fray;
He, of course, only "chanced to be riding that way;"
And the master—the ploughman—the rich and the poor,
Stood Equality's jostling about the barn door.

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