The wind was rough
And cold and blough,
She kept her hands within her mough.

It chill’d her through,
Her nose grough blough
And still the squall the faster flough.

And yet although
There was nough snough,
The weather was a cruel fough.

It made her cough —
Pray do not scough! —
She coughed until her hat blew ough.

Ah, you may laugh,
You silly caugh!
I’d like to beat you with my staugh.

Her hat she caught,
And saught and faught
To put it on and tie it taught.

Try as she might
To fix it tight
Again it flew off like a kight,

Away up high
Into the skigh.
The poor girl sat her down to crigh.

She cried till eight
P.M., so leight!
Then home she went at a greight reight.

— J.H. Walton