At High Creoch, Gatehouse

You ask me for a line or two—
I never write in rainy weather—
But I suppose that I must do
My best to string some rhymes together.
What shall it be? 'A song,' you say,
'Stuck full of doves and all that fashion;'
Alas! I cannot pipe that way,
Or imitate an early passion.
Besides, to really write a song
To some young maiden who could love me;
Two double verses—not too long—
I'd like to have the sun above me.
I'd like to have him shine upon
The paper—and if this were granted,
The rhymes would trip up, one by one,
In order just as they were wanted.
Of course I own that you have heard
Of poets who were more unbending,
Who could at any time, when stirred,
Spin out their couplets without ending.
All this I grant, but bear in mind
My muse has but a humble pinion,
And cannot reach her higher kind,
Or even sit in their dominion.
But look! against the window pane
The wind like any fiend is dashing;
A steady flood of drenching rain,
Which saves, of course, a lot of washing.
But, for a poet out of town
For holiday, it stands to reason,
To ask his muse to flutter down
'Tis scarcely just the proper season.
Enough, I say, come Muse of mine—
Who, strange to say, has lately missed me—
And give me something in the line
Of Leigh Hunt's charming 'Jenny Kissed Me.'
A fact! she did, or, let me see,
I think we both laid lips together.
At anyrate, take this from me—
I never write in rainy weather.