The burden of strange seasons. Rain all night, Blown-rain and wind co-mingling all the day; Perchance we say the morrow will be bright; But lo, the morrow is as yesterday: With sullen skies and sunsets cold and gray, With lights reverse, the heavy hours retire; And so the strange sad season slips away―― I pray thee put fresh coals upon the fire. The burden of rheumatics. This is sore Damp, and east wind maketh it past bearing; When thy life’s span has stretched to threescore, No rest hast thou at dawn or evening. The shivering in thy bones, the shivering In all thy marrows through this season dire, Makes summer seem a shameful wretched thing―― For God’s love put fresh coals upon the fire. The burden of dead apples. Lo, their doom, Decay and blight upon the tender trees, All fruit made fruitless, blossom bloomless bloom An eastern wind of many miseries. Naught has survived save pale-green gooseberries, The food in fools, of fools, who such desire. God wot, no lack have we of fooleries―― I prithee put fresh coals upon the fire. The burden of bad harvests. For the gods, Who change the springing corn from green to red, Have scourged us for our sins with many rods, And left our grain and oil ungarnerèd. The market-men heap ashes on their head, And cry aloud and rend their best attire; The gods are just, prayers are unanswerèd―― I pray thee put fresh coals upon the fire. The burden of lost peaches. Ah, my sweet, This year I seek them in the sunny South, To press them to thy sharp white tooth to eat, To kiss thy amorous hair and curled-up mouth. Lust and desire are dust and deadly drouth, For lust is dust and deadly drouth desire, And time creeps over all with wingèd feet―― For love’s sake put fresh coals upon the fire. The burden of dull colours. Thou shalt see Strange harmonies in brown and olive-green, In curious costumes fashioned cunningly, And all unlike the things in summer seen; And thou shalt say of summer, it hath been. Or if unconsciously thou wouldst inquire What these my mournful music-measures mean, I bid thee heap fresh coals upon the fire. L’ENVOY. Tourists and ye whom Cook accomp’nies, Heed well before from him ye tickets hire―― This season is a mist of miseries; So once more heap fresh coals upon the fire. FLOREANT-LAURI (_J. M. Lowry_). This parody was afterwards included in _A Book of Jousts_, edited by James M. Lowry. London, Field and Tuer. ―――― BALLADE OF CRICKET.