ANOTHER ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND
(KINGSLEY)
Hang thee, vile North Easter:
Other things may be
Very bad to bear with,
Nothing equals thee.
Grim and grey North Easter,
From each Essex-bog,
From the Plaistow marshes,
Rolling London fog—
'Tired we are of Summer'
Kingsley may declare,
I give the assertion
Contradiction bare,
I, in bed, this morning
Felt thee, as I lay:
'There's a vile North Easter
Out of doors to-day!'
Set the dust clouds blowing
Till each face they strike,
With the blacks is growing
Chimney-sweeper like.
Fill our rooms with smoke gusts
From the chimney-pipe.
Fill our eyes with water,
That defies the wipe.
Through the draughty passage
Whistle loud and high,
Making doors and windows
Rattle, flap and fly;
Mark, that vile North Easter
Roaring up the vent,
Nipping soul and body,
Breeding discontent!
Squall, my noisy children;
Scold, my shrewish partner;
I accept my fate.
All is quite in tune with
This North Eastern Blast;
Who can look for comfort
Till this wind be past?
If all goes contrary,
Who can feel surprise,
With this Rude North Easter
In his teeth and eyes?
It blows much too often.
Nine days out of ten,
Yet we boast our climate,
Like true English men!
In their soft South Easters
Could I bask at ease,
I'd let France and Naples
Bully as they please,
But while this North Easter
In one's teeth is hurled,
Liberty seems worth just
Nothing in the world.
Come, as came our fathers
Heralded by thee,
Blasting, blighting, burning
Out of Normandy.
Come and flay and skin us,
And dry up our blood—
All to have a Kingsley
Swear it does him good!