VERSES TO THE WEATHER MAIDEN.
Lady, the best and brightest of the sex,
Whose smile we value, and whose frown we fear,
Let me proclaim the miseries that vex
The numerous throng who all esteem you dear;
'Tis not that you habitually appear
Serenely contemplating the Atlantic
In raiment which, if fashionable here,
Would greatly shock the properly pedantic,
Make Glasgow green with rage, and Mrs. Grundy frantic;
Your classical costume a true delight is
To all who study you from day to day,
And even if it hastens on bronchitis
It serves your graceful figure to display:
But now your thousand fond admirers pray
Amid the tumult of the London traffic
And in each rural unfrequented way—
"O weather-goddess, look with smile seraphic
And prophesy 'Set Fair' within the Daily Graphic!"
Too long, too long, each worshipper relates,
You've told of woe with melancholy glance,
Predicted new "depressions" from the States,
Or "V-shaped cyclones" nearing us from France;
Our summer flies, oh, herald the advance
Of decent weather ere its course be ended,
Put your umbrella down, and if by chance
Piscator grumble, let him go unfriended,
Heed not his selfish moan, but give us sunshine splendid!
Our confidence towards you never flinches,
Let others be unceasingly employed
In working out the barometric inches,
Or tapping at the fickle aneroid,
Wet bulb and dry we equally avoid,
In you, and you alone, our hopes remain,
Then be not by our forwardness annoyed,
Nor let our supplications rise in vain,—
Oh, Daily Graphic maid, smile, smile on us again!