A DITTY OF THE DOG-DAYS.
Ninety-one in the shade, by Negretti and Zambra!
'Tis O that I dwelt in an ice-crevasse,
Or rented a share in the Mer de Glace,
Or hired (ere I melt and resolve to gas)
That patio cool in the chill Alhambra
(Not "Lei-ces-ter Squarr," but Granada far),
Where fountains sprinkle and plash and tinkle—
Ay me! that my dream can ne'er come to pass!
"Fourteen hours of the sun!" says the "Jordan Recorder"—
Each day it grows hotter in London town!
The plane-trees are withered and burnt and brown;
Ere Lammas has come the leaves are down!
The months have been mixed—they're out of order;
We'd the weather of June six weeks too soon;
And now we swelter and gasp for shelter—
We're grilled alive from toe to crown!
There's drought in the fields, and drought in my gullet!
I would that I sat in a boundless tank
Of claret and soda, and drank and drank!
My thirst with Pantagruel's own would rank—
Gargantuan draughts alone may lull it!
A shandygaff "chute" à la Boyton would suit,
Or of Pilsener lager a Nile or Niagara—
Would that it through my œsophagus sank!
I'd long to be Nansen, that bold Norwegian,
Who's off to the north like a sailor-troll;
Dry land I prefer in my inmost soul,
And his tub-like Fram will pitch and roll,
But she's bound at least for a glacial region!
Or stay, to be sure! here's Professor D——r
To cold can consign us untold degrees minus—
There's no need to visit the Northern Pole!
With this decuman "heat-wave" I grow delirious,
And babble a prayer to the Maid who sways
The Weather-department (on working-days)
Of the Daily Graphic—in crazy phrase—
The bale-fire to quench of far-distant Sirius!
To the Man in the Moon at noon I croon
For a lunatic boon, if that lone buffoon
Can stay this canicular, perpendicular,
Bang-on-my-forehead, horrid, torrid,
Beaming, gleaming, and ever-streaming
Blaze of rays that maze and daze!!