I will twirl her zephyr—snatch her light umbrella,
Seize her hat, and snarl her glossy hair!"
On went the Whirlwind, showing many capers
One would hardly deem it meet to tell;—
Dusting Judge and Parson—flirting gown and papers,—
Discomposing matron, beau and belle.
"Whisk!" from behind came the long and sweeping feather,
Round the head of old Chanticleer:—
Plumed and plumeless biped felt gust together,
In a way they wouldn't like to hear.