But hopelessly rended in twain
And spoilt by the rude hurricane!
Though clad in a stout mackintosh,
My temper I scarce can restrain—
I think that a Ballade is bosh!
Oh, I’m an unfortunate wight!
The damp is affecting my brain;
My woes I would gladly recite,
In phrases emphatic and plain,
Your sympathy could I obtain.