'TIS the morning hour by the Old South clock, But the light is hardly enough to mock The candies lit in the breakfast-room: Ugh! ugh! Ugh! ugh! Nobody up, but the maid and groom, And not a spark to cheer the gloom: Ugh! ugh! Unless they get one up, those two, By the candles lit in the breakfast room. Is the day foggy and cold? _Decidedly_--both foggy and cold; And so for three long days shall be, While hangs this mist o'er land and sea; Three days and nights, like a frightful dream-- Some say the earth is blowing off steam. Boston is up, and its noisy blare Strikes heavily on the muffled air; Like the growling of some savage beast, Hidden away at his morning feast: A faint, dull light is off the east, A trifle of cream, that mingles there With the milky hue of the thick, dull air; And by that light in the east, you guess That the Sun is somewhere up to dress, But, held back by some fond caress, Has caught his night-gown over his head, And----Boston, breakfasted, Quite cool, thus knowingly looks up, One hand holding the coffee-cup, The other with the 'Morning Post' To 'calculate' how long, at most, 'This heavy weather will hold on'-- So, breakfasts, dines, and sups, Boston. Oh! pleasant _reflections_ are every where Except in this cursed atmosphere; But nothing whatever, unless their priest, Disturbs your Boston phlegm the least; Not even a storm, No'th-East by East. III.