The American Songster, Song

Little muses come and cry, Put your finger in your eye; Join the macaroni kind, Demn the weather, demn the wind.

Winds that rumple powder'd hair, Winds that fright the feather'd fair, Winds that blow our hats away, And rudely with our ruffles play,

Winds, that crown the gentle note, Fritter'd through a gentle threat; Winds that clouds around us throw, And spoil the giltter of our show.

Damn the winds that us have stirr'd, On Friday June the twenty-third, To plague the macaroni kind: Damn the rain, and damn the wind.