Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/449

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COLD WATER.
431
And now the kettle comes again; That's not the way to cool one:Tea makes an empty stomach hot, And hotter still a full one.
Well now the supper's come, and come To make bad worse I wot;For supper, whilst it heats the cool, Will never cool the hot.
And bed, which cheers the cold man's heart, Helps not the hot a pin;For he who's hot when out of bed, Is ten times hotter in.
Saturday.
In glowing terms I would this day indite(Its morn, its noon, its afternoon and night),The busiest day throughout the week—the latter day;A day whereon odd matters are made even,The dirtiest, cleanest too, of all the seven,The scouring pail, pan, plate, and platter day;A day of general note and notability,A plague to gentlefolks and prime gentility,E'en to the highest ranks—nobility!And, yet a day (barring all jokes) of great utility,Both to the rich as well as the mobility.A day of din—of clack—a clatter day;For all, howe'er they mince the matter, say    This day they dread;    A day with hippish, feverish, frenzy fed,Is that grand day of fuss and bustle,—Saturday.
Cold Water.
Some sing the peaceful pleasures of the plains, While other bards invoke the groves and woods;But I, enamoured of incessant rains, Will make my theme cold water and the floods.
Let others sit beneath the leafy shade, While murmuring breezes softly float about;But I in purling brooks delight to wade, Or stand beneath some friendly water-spout.
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