Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero.
Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out,
And in streams, just like lava, meander’d about,
You may fancy the curious effect of the weather,
The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together.
When my first for a moment had harden’d my last,
My second burst out, and all melted as fast;
To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on,
But I quite forget which of the elements won.
But a truce with all joking—I hope you’ll excuse me,