LAST MOVEMENT.
Hurricane signals gather apace
Thickly over the pale moon's face;
Masses of blackness looming forth,
South'ard and eastward, west and north,
Wild wind veering, ever and aye,
Over the compass—over the sky.
Mutter of thunder, lurid gleams,
Rain that clashes in deluge-streams.
Over the wheat-fields, over the stiles,
Two-and-a-quarter of English miles.
Boots that cannot exclude the wet;
Clothes the thinnest that cash can get.
Far away, in the homely cot,
Stands my gingham—the best I've got.
Never so much as a Macintosh;
N ever a cape, or an odd galosh!
(Chord in the minor, FF.)
