Unhappy is the man to-day who rides, Making his journey sloppier, not shorter; Aye, there they go, a dozen of outsides, Performing on “a Stage with real water!” A dripping Pauper crawls along the way, The only real willing out-of-doorer And says, or seems to say, “Well, I am poor enough--but here’s a _pourer_!” The scene in water colours thus I paint, Is your own Festival, you Sloppy Saint! Mother of all the Family of Rainers! Saint of the Soakers! Making all people croakers, Like frogs in swampy marshes, and complainers! And why you mizzle forty days together, Giving the earth your water-soup to sup, I marvel--Why such wet, mysterious weather? I wish you’d _clear it up_! Why cast such cruel dampers On pretty Pic Nics, and against all wishes Set the cold ducks a-swimming in the hampers, And volunteer, unask’d, to wash the dishes? Why drive the Nymphs from the selected spot, To cling like lady-birds around a tree-- Why spoil a Gipsy party at their tea, By throwing your cold water upon hot? Cannot a rural maiden, or a man, Seek Hornsey-Wood by invitation, sipping Their green with Pan, But souse you come, and show their Pan, all dripping! Why upon snow-white table-cloths and sheets, That do not wait, or want a second washing, Come squashing? Why task yourself to lay the dust in streets, As if there were no Water-Cart contractors, No pot-boys spilling beer, no shop-boys ruddy Spooning out puddles muddy, Milkmaids, and other slopping benefactors! A Queen you are, raining in your own right, Yet oh! how little flatter’d by report! Even by those that seek the Court, Pelted with every term of spleen and spite. Folks rail and swear at you in every place; They say you are a creature of no bowel; They say you’re always washing Nature’s face, And that you then supply her, With nothing drier, Than some old wringing cloud by way of towel! The whole town wants you duck’d, just as you duck it, They wish you on your own mud porridge supper’d, They hope that you may kick your own big bucket, Or in your water-butt go sous! heels up’ard! They are, in short, so weary of your drizzle, They’d spill the water in your veins to stop it-- Be warn’d! You are too partial to a mizzle-- Pray _drop it_! LINES TO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA. Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly, And tempests make a soda-water sea, Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly, And think of me! Go where the mild Madeira ripens _her_ juice,-- A wine more praised than it deserves to be! Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice, And think of me!