Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LINES WRITTEN IN THE DOG-DAYS; HOW HOT IT IS!, by WILLIAM WOTY


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LINES WRITTEN IN THE DOG-DAYS; HOW HOT IT IS!, by                    
First Line: The sun now darts his fervid rays
Last Line: How charming now, and cool it is!
Subject(s): Farm Life; Harvest; Labor & Laborers; Oppression; Sun; Thirst; Agriculture; Farmers; Work; Workers


THE sun now darts his fervid rays
With most intense and ardent blaze.
The herds all pant for want of rains,
And sadly each to each complains.
They whisk the tail and lick the mouth,
The withered pasture's parched with drouth.
The flies and gnats around them cling,
Their twitching backs denote the sting.
In yonder fields,
Where plenty yields
A harvest—how well got it is!
The farmers yet
God's gift forget.
O bless my heart! how hot it is!

All hands at work—at times they rest,
Quite over-heated and oppressed,
Their tiresome labours then renew,
To their employers ever true.
The little dog, with naught to do
But watch the scrip and bottle too,
On some old vestment panting lies
With lolling tongue and half-shut eyes.
I pity those,
Kind heaven knows,
To toil so hard whose lot it is,
Whose masters grudge
Each weary drudge,
Considering not how hot it is!

My head it aches, my pulse is high,
A fever sure is drawing nigh,
My temples burn beneath the glare:
O what a dreadful shoot was there!
I feel a something, void of name,
That renders languid all my frame.
My breath is short and very quick,
I find myself extremely sick.
In yonder nook,
I spy a brook
And house—how snug a cot it is!
I'll baffle there
The sultry air.
God bless my heart! how hot it is!

Dame, did you ever feel such heat?
'No truly, sir, it makes me sweat.
My stays, though somewhat worse for wear
And patched all o'er, I scarce can bear;
And, were I sure 'twould not offend,
I'd strip myself from end to end,
And walk barefooted on the floor
Fore every comer-in and goer.'
Tush—quick, some ale;
Or mild or stale,
Good, bad, I care not what it is.
My thirst to slake
A quart I'll take.
O bless my heart! how hot it is!

'There, how do y'like it?'—Very good:
It tastes as all brisk, mild ale should.
Are you a widow, wife or maid?
'Good dear! I'm neither, sir', she said;
'I never yet could bear control.
I hate it from my very soul,
So keep unmarried to be free
From any husband's tyranny.'
Pray, what's your sign?
I can't divine.
'The worn-out sack of wool it is.'
Your servant, dame.
'To you the same.'
How charming now, and cool it is!





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net