‘ Twas on a night of wildest storms, When loudly roar'd the raving main,— When dark clouds shew'd their shapeless forms, And hail beat hard the cottage pane,—
Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side, With open mouth and staring eyes; A batter'd broom was all his pride,— It was his wife, his child, his prize!
Alike to him if tempests howl, Or summer beam its sweetest day; For still is pleas'd the silly soul, And still he laughs the hours away.
Alas! I could not stop the sigh, To see him thus so wildly stare,— To mark, in ruins, Reason lie, Callous alike to joy and care.
God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried; Yet are thy wants but very few: The world's hard scenes thou ne'er hast tried; Its cares and crimes to thee are new.
The hoary hag , who cross'd thee so, Did not unkindly vex thy brain; Indeed she could not be thy foe, To snatch thee thus from grief and pain.
Deceit shall never wring thy heart, And baffled hope awake no sighs; And true love, harshly forc'd to part, Shall never swell with tears thine eyes.
Then long enjoy thy batter'd broom, Poor merry fool! and laugh away ‘ Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom In blissful scenes of brighter day.
Cookies on Poetry Cove