Or snugly arbour'd, with bower anchor ride,
And lose the tide—
Their funnies near, the watermen look sad,
Short cut or shag alone their sorrow lulls,
In sunshine read your page of weather bad,
And shake their heads, for no one wants their sculls.
But, sad to think, the washerwoman's pain,
Praying for rain,
And vainly hoping, as for showers she sniffs,
To fill her butts with your delusive ifs.