Dear me! Going back? I can hardly conceive it.

I thought we were in for a spell of "Set Fair."

A serious change? No, I will not believe it;

I can't, I declare.

I've tapped it with confidence morning by morning,

This glass which has never deceived me before;

And now to go wrong in this way, without warning!—

It's really a bore.

Of course it's too bad to be true, for the weather

So settled has seemed, and has promised so well,

And why it should go and break up altogether

Nobody can tell.

Tap! Tap! Yes, it's true, it is certainly dropping.

Things seem—for the moment—a bit out of joint,

For of course there is not the least fear of its stopping

At such a low point.

No, no, that's absurd; the idea makes one pallid.

This many and many a day from my door

Without a top-coat or a gingham I've sallied;

And now, will it pour?

O nonsense! The omens have all been so cheery;

The Times, in its forecasts, have been so cock-sure.

Can we all have been wrong? Nay, a prospect so dreary

I cannot endure.

Some local disturbances truly I've heard of.

Our foes make the most of such little mishaps;

But then they mean nothing; it's really absurd of

The ignorant chaps.

At Spalding or Coventry weather may vary;—

And yet, when the "area of change" gets too wide,

Men fancy it's more than a passing vagary;—

Ay, even our side.

Tap! Tap! Yes there is a perceptible tumble.

One can't "square" the weather or "get at" the glass.

A storm? Oh! 'twas merely the least little rumble,—

'Twill probably pass.

Yes. Up in the North there 'tis always unsettled;

I fancy we shan't be so shifty down South.

No, really there's not the least call to be nettled,

Or down in the mouth.

I'll take my umbrella,—a useful possession,

Yes, even in summer with wind in the east.

But this—oh! it's merely a "local depression";—

I hope so, at least!