A Lenten Rhapsody.

A Lenten Rhapsody.
560.8

No, the house is not a-ûre
Where that smoke doth kiss the sky,
And that music is no lyre,
Twanging with wild melody.
It is just the rip and roar,
Sneeze and whip and smut and souse,
Aching limbs and joints all sore,
Of the days of cleaning house.