I’ll call my comrades on the hill to pass the word with speed
And fetch my green umbrella-hat to help me in my need.
XI.
But my little hat does little good; my plight is very sad!
I stand with clothes all dripping wet, like some poor fisher-lad;
Like him I have a basket, too, of meshes woven fine—
A fisher-lad, if I only had his fishing-rod and line.
XII.
The rain is o’er; the outer leaves their branching fibres show;
Shake down the branch, the fragrant scent about us ’gins to blow;