Of Rondeau tired, and Triolet as well!
THE BALLADE.
(In Bad Weather.)
Oh! I’m in a terrible plight—
For how can I rhyme in the rain?
’Tis pouring from morn until night:
So bad is the weather again,
My language is almost profane!
Though shod with the useful galosh,
I’m racked with rheumatical pain—