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 gows 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 labors 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.

"Den"
Herald, 2 February 1931, p6