Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/81

 Drip, drip, drip! and one’s ‘nap’ is far from dry: ’Tis hard to keep the water out, however one may try: I’d sell myself to Satan for three fingers of a nip: There’s cramps and vile rheumatics in that drip, drip, drip.

Pat, pat, pat! how it patters on the land! ’Tis certainly consoling to be camped upon the sand: There’s naught but mud and water over yonder on the flat, Where the spots of rain are splashing with their pat, pat, pat.

Rain, rain, rain! and the day is nearly done: I wonder shall we see another rising of the sun? Has the sky shut down and stifled him; or will he come again And stop the cursed clatter of this rain, rain, rain?

Drop, drop, drop! monotonous as Life, With now and then a western breeze that cuts one like a knife: Sputter on the fire: is it never going to stop? Has the weather-clerk gone crazy, with his drop, drop, drop?

Drip, drip, drip! the squatter wouldn’t say ’Thank God!’ so earnestly if he were camped in it to-day. ’Tis in at last: I knew it! there’s a pool about my hip: Oh, ’tis maddening and sadd’ning, with its drip, drip, drip!