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But as the storm did fast increase,
And as the wreaths did gather,
The weaver's bundle had unloosed,
And fa'en frac aff his shouther.
When, sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His loss he did discover,
He left the coach, and sought in vain
His bundle to recover.
'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief
Through storm his voice did sound ill
At lenth he stood, and wept, and cried,
My bundle! O my bundle!
Twas vain; the snaw had covered o'er
The wab, his view preventin'
The coach drave on-the weaver stood
Alane, his case lamentin',
THE DRUNKARD AND HIS BOTTLE.
Sober. Touch thee! No. Viper of vengeance!
I'll break thy head against the wall,
Did you not promise?—ay—
To make me strong as Sampson—
And rich—rich as Crœsus—
(I'll wring thy villainous neck),
And wise—wise as Solomon,
And happier than the happiest!
But instead of this—villain!
You've stripped me of my locks—
Left my pocket empty as a cuckoo's nest
In March-fooled me out of all my senses—
Made me ragged—made me wretched,
And then laid me in a ditch!
