Came down, it seems, this news to tell;
The kettle sang the self-same tune
When it boiled dry so very soon;
The grass this morning said so, too,
That hung without a drop of dew;
And the blue swallows, flying low
Across the river, to and fro.
So all these told her very plain
That ere the evening it would rain;
But who told them, and when, and how?