Through the draughty passage Whistle loud and high, Making door and windows Rattle, flap and fly; Hark, that vile North Easter Roaring up the vent. Nipping soul and body, Breeding discontent! Squall, my noisy children; Smoke, my parlour grate; Scold, my shrewish partner; I accept my fate. All is quite in tune with This North Eastern blast; Who can look for comfort Till this wind be past? If all goes contrary, Who can feel surprise, With this rude North Easter In his teeth and eyes? It blows much too often, Nine days out of ten, Yet we boast our climate, Like true English men! In their soft South Easters Could I bask at ease, I’d let France and Naples Bully as they please, But while this North Easter In one’s teeth is hurled, Liberty seems worth just Nothing in the world. Come, as came our fathers Heralded by thee, Blasting, blighting, burning Out of Normandie. Come and flay and skin us, And dry up our blood―― All to have a KINGSLEY Swear it does him good! _Punch_, April 10, 1858. ―――― ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. _By a Débutante at the last Drawing Room._ Welcome, wild North-Easter? Oh! most certainly! _Here_ a girl _must_ gladly Turn a verse to thee! Welcome, black North-Easter? Eugh! a German goddess, Or a Danish nymph, Never donned low bodice. True it _looks_ like Summer, There’s a chilly glare; But the Sun seems hurtling Ice-shafts through the air. In their glad Spring greenery All the trees look gay, But through Summer’s scenery Winds of Winter play; Sweep my golden tassels, To my bosom strike; Make my toes feel tingling In some frozen dyke; Fill my eyes with tear-drops, Cold――I hope as bright―― As those diamond ear-drops, Dear Mamma’s delight; Through this thin tulle-pleating Worm their way until My poor heart stops beating With the deathly chill. Hark! the brave North-Easter, Like a blast from Norway, Howls along the passage, Whistles through the doorway. Cringe, ye courtly darlings, In your robes of snow, Trimmed with pure white lilac! Heavens! it _does_ blow! Even the plump Duchess In her _brocatelle_ Finds the draught _too_ much is, Though _she’s_ covered well. Her blue lips she closes, Her chilled eyelids wink, And her Roman nose is, Like her train, shrimp-pink. Mamma’s eye is on me, Sparkling like a jewel. Courage! but this wind is Cruel, cruel, cruel!