The Pub & Goldbug Review

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March Wind

pg. 13 & 14 - Musings of the Pilgrim Bard,
by Scott Cummins, the Pilgrim Bard

When the old house keeps a rockin',
Like as if 'twas goin' to fall;
And the pebbles keep a knockin' --
Knockin' 'gainst the fragile wall,
Sets a tired feller thinkn'
of fell goblin, wraith or fiend,
Fancy into fancy linkin',
Yet 'tis nothin' but the wind;
Roar, roar, rattle door,
Through each cranny in the floor.
Through each crack and crevice small,
Where a chigger scarce could crawl,
Every seam 'tis sure to find,
O beshrew, the bleak March wind.

All day long, to feed the critters,
I have tried my level best;
Tears my fodder into fritters,
Splits the endgate of my vest;
Almost sets a feller cussin',
Yet too well I understand,
If I ope' my mouth a fussin'
'Twould soon fill with dust and sand;
Shriek, shriek, creak, creak --
Seven long days in a week;
Though my language seem unkind,
Devil take the bleak March wind.

Now adieu, my lamp burns dimly,
Sleep and rest I needs must try;
Let the roaring round my chimney
Be a soothing lullaby,
This my pray'r before undressin',
Hopeless pray'r with pathos filled,
That the wind may cease caressin'
Nature, and a while be still'd;
Scream, scream, while I dream
'Till the sun with lurid gleam
Wakes me to resume the fight
With the hurricanish sprite,
Respite body, respite mind,
From the raging of the wind.

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