All day he had sat without a hat,
The comical old feller,
Shading his form from the driving storm
With the Rectory Umbrella.
When the storm had passed by, & the ground was dry,
And the sun shon bright on the plain,
He arose from his seat, and he stood on his feet,
And sang a melting strain:
All is o’er! the sun is setting,
Soon will sound the dinner bell;
Thou hast saved me from a wetting,
Here I’ll take my last farewell!
Far dost thou eclipse the Maga-
zines which came before thy day,
And thy coming made them stagger,
Like the stars at morning ray.
Let me call again their phantoms,
And their voices long gone by,
Like the crow of distant bantams,
Or the buzzing of a fly.
First in age, but not in merit,
Stands the Rectr’y Magazine;
All it’s wit thou dost inherit,
Though the Comet came between.
Novelty was in it’s favour,
And mellifluous it’s lays,
All, with eager plaudits, gave a
Vote of honour in it’s praise.
Next in order comes the Comet,
Like some vague and feverish dream,
Gladly, gladly turn I from it,
To behold thy rising beam!
When I first began to edit,
In the Rect’ry Magazine,
Each one wrote therein who read it,
Each one read who wrote therein.
When the Comet next I started,
They grew lazy as a drone:
Gradually all departed,
Leaving me to write alone.
But in thee—let future ages
Mark the fact which I record,
No one helped me in thy pages,
Even with a single word!
But the wine has left the cellar,
And I hear the dinner bell,
So fare thee well, my old Umbrella,
Dear Umbrella, fare thee well!