Week-Ends

I don't know what's come to the summer In these dull and decadent years; But a fellow grows glummer and glummer As promise of autumn appears; For there's not been a sign of a week-end of shine, Or the sun on the sea all aglimmer. And, as the weeks pass, wet and windy, alas, Thin hope grows yet slimmer and slimmer. Oh, the sad days, the mad days, Of rain and wind and mud! The week speeds by with the sun on high To come a sickening thud. When the slippery slosh of the gum golosh On the soaked and sodden ground Thro' the country lane sounds once again When the week-end comes around. When I go to the bush for a week-end From a city aglow in the sun, My holiday comes to a bleak end Ere half a day's length has been run. And I gaze thro' the pane at the splattering rain, Forlorn thro' a profitless Sunday, And come back to town with the sun pouring down To smile on my labours on Monday. Oh, the weekends, when pique ends In grim and gaunt despair! Hope wakes anew as all week thro' The glass is pointing fair, And fine and warm: but a lurking storm Behind the high hills grows To spread dismay each Saturday And another week-end goes.