A merciless young rascal is the Wind. His chief delight
Is to worry ships at sea with savage storms by day and night,
Like a dog-wolf harrying sheep, he chases clouds and scatters showers,
Lays the stately oak-trees low, and snaps the stems of fragile flowers.
A brand he whirls aloft and drops among the farmer's gear,
Chuckling to see the flames consume the produce of a year ;
Then swoops down on a group of girls — deranges all their dresses,
Tears off their silken 'kerchiefs, and their snowy necks caresses.
In all four quarters of the globe he blusters and he raves,
Upsetting, pagan-like, the crosses set o'er Christian graves; —
Pursued by curses of the dead, through brake and bush he tries
To dash, all reckless of the thorns that tear him as he flies.
His abode is in the forest. There arrived, his mother dear
Bathes his hurts in milk, and chides him, shedding many a bitter tear, "
Weep no more, my mammy sweet," he cries, " I know that I have sinned —
But when I kiss their pretty eyes, the girls all love the wind ! "