(The Result of the First Fortnight).
DON'T wake and call me early, pray don't call me, mother dear,
To-morrow may be the coldest day of all this cold New Year;
Of all this wintry year, mother, the wildest stormiest day,
And we have had fires in May, mother, we have had fires in May.
I sleep so sound at night, mother, that I don't want to wake,
With the horrid thermometer standing at what seems a sad mistake;
But none so wise as those who read the weather forecasts, they say;
Shall we have more fires in May, mother? must we have more fires in May?
A storm is coming across, mother, the New York Herald has said,