And when it got over a hundred and nine,
It worked on some portly old buffers like wine,
On some elderly fogies like physic.
O summer's a guest we all part with in sorrow;
But when she comes back the day after to-morrow,
(Instead of in six months, or seven,)
Before her late sorrowing mourners are ready,
Society's course she is apt to unsteady,
Till we wish her in Tophet—or heaven.
But there is one thing our late summer has done: