ODE TO A BAROMETER.

I tap you early, tap you late,

In vain!

We get—whatever you may state—

Much rain.

The Woodpecker of which fools sing

Ne'er tapped

Half so persistently. Since Spring

I've rapped

Your fair false dial day by day,

And yet

The end—whatever you may say

Is wet!

'Twas wet in June, and in July

Wet too;

In August it is wetter. Why,

Trust you?

Barometer, you false old chap,

You bore!

I'm no Woodpecker, and I'll tap

No more!