Now are aught but evanescent!

All the shrubberies are dripping—

Plots of grass are soft and spungy—

Roads seem only made for slipping—

And we fall like—Missolunghi!

Now the streets are clear of rabble—

Shopkeepers find no employment—

Ducks and geese keep gabble, gabble—

Mocking us with their enjoyment!

Now we cry, "When will it leave off?"—