A Song from a Sandhill

written by

« Reload image

Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly--The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky:Each drooping frond of pine has got a jewel at its tip--First a twinkle, then a sprinkle, and a drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! They must be shearing up on high.Can't you see the snowy fleeces that are rolling, rolling by?How many bales, I wonder, are they branding to the clip?P'r'aps the Boss is keeping tally with this drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! while the sodden branches sigh:The jovial jackass dare not laugh for fear that he should cry:The merry magpie's melody is frozen on his lip;He glowers at the showers, with their drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! and one's "nap" is far from dry:'Tis hard to keep the water out, however one may try:I'd sell myself to Satan for three fingers of a nip:There's cramps and vile rheumatics in that drip, drip, drip.

Pat, pat, pat! how it patters on the land!'Tis certainly consoling to be camped upon the sand:There's naught but mud and water over yonder on the flat,Where the spots of rain are splashing with their pat, pat, pat.

Rain, rain, rain! and the day is nearly done:I wonder shall we see another rising of the sun?Has the sky shut down and stifled him; or will he come againAnd stop the cursed clatter of this rain, rain, rain?

Drop, drop, drop! monotonous as Life,With now and then a western breeze that cuts one like a knife:Sputter on the fire: is it never going to stop?Has the weather-clerk gone crazy, with his drop, drop, drop?

Drip, drip, drip! the squatter wouldn't say"Thank God!" so earnestly if he were camped in it to-day.'Tis in at last: I knew it! there's a pool about my hip:Oh, 'tis maddening and sadd'ning, with its drip, drip, drip!

© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake