TO DOCTOR FALBE.
You're not in-fal'be'-le, Doctor dear—
Excuse the painful pun,
Though you merit treatment e'en more severe
For all the ill you've done.
You held a nasty cloud of doubt
Above our sunlit sky,
And now at length we've found you out,
Our summer is near gone by.
Yes, a summer indeed we've had this year,
In spite of your doleful croak,
Though perhaps your early prediction drear
Was simply a practical joke—
A wearisome joke that wouldn't die,
For every man one met
Would remind one of Falbe and his prophecy—
"We're soon to have lots of wet."
But what of the tradesmen who laid in store
Of "brollies" and mackintosh
On the strength of your hint as to rain galore
And unlimited Autumn slosh?
Oh, Falbe, if they but got hold of you,
What a tune they would perform!
There's one prediction we'd warrant true—
You'd find it extremely warm!
