'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.