Septembers Storm

I'm not a chicken.
I've seen many a chill September.
And though I was a youngster then,
The gale I well remember.

The day before my kite string snapped,

and now my kite perusing.
The wind swept off my straw weaved hat.
For me two storms a brewing.

It came as quarrels sometimes do

When married folks get clashing.
There was a heavy sigh or two
Before the fire was flashing.

A little stir among the clouds

Before they rent asunder.
A little rocking of the trees
And then came on the thunder.

All above was in a howl

All below a clatter
The earth was like a frying pan
Or some such hissing matter.

Lord! How streams and rivers boiled

They seemed like bursting craters.
The oaks lay scattered on the ground
As if they were potaters.

It chanced to be our washing day

And all our clothes were drying.
The wind came whistling through the lines
And set them all a-flying.

I saw the shirts and underwear

Go flying off like witches.
And then alas!-
I saw my Sunday breeches.

I saw them straddling through the air

Alas! To late to win them.
I saw them chase the clouds on high
As if a demon in them.

They were my darlings and my pride,

My boyhoods only riches.
Farewell, farewell, I vainly cried
My breeches, oh, my breeches!

That night I saw them in my dreams.

Now changed from what I knew them-
The dew had steeped their faded threads
The wind had whistled through them.

I saw the wide and ghastly rent

Where demons claws had torn them.
A hole was in the amplest part
As if an imp had worn them.

Now I've had many happy years

And tailors kind and clever;
But those young pantaloons
Are gone forever and forever.

And not 'til time shall cut the last

Of all my earthly stitches,
The aching heart shall cease to mourn,
My breeches, Oh, my breeches