Long years ago and far away,
One very sunny, summer day,
In tropic lands, one special spot
Was very, very, very hot.
A King lay in the sweltering shade,
While crowds of dusky slaves arrayed
In almost nothing, tried to keep
His Highness cool enough to sleep.
Though fans were waved to stir the air,
Though fountains tinkled everywhere,
Though every noisy sound was stilled,
Though sweet and cooling odors filled
The air, though lulled was every sense,
The King was far from somnolence.
“Descend,” said he, “O, drowsy god;
Vouchsafe at least to let me nod.”
His prayer was vain, the god ’twas clear,
Was out or did not care to hear.
In desperation then the King
Called up a slave and bade him bring
Young Boreas, a big, fat fool,
And said, “Why don’t you make it cool?”
Now Boreas knew of just one way
To cool things off, for every day
With mighty power of cheek and lung
He blew his soup to save his tongue.
And so responding to the King
He ’gan to blow like anything.
The sunshine paled, an icy chill
Came over all, and plain and hill
Were frosted white; in sound repose
The King slept; what is more he froze.
Still Boreas blew and blew until
There was no sound except the shrill
Sound of his blowing; all in sight
Was silenced by the frosty blight.
He stopped, lo, all the land was dead;
In terror at his deed he fled,
Nor stopped for flood nor stick nor stone
Until he reached the arctic zone.
And there he dwells; alas, we know
That he remembers how to blow.