I visit oft where lovers sit, I hear their vows of love; The bright green grass is all below-- The sky of blue above.
And there they sit and talk of love-- As only lovers know;-- They think the world a paradise And all things bright below.
I visit oft the city’s haunts,-- I raise the dust on high, And whirl it like a water-wheel, As ever on I fly.
I play with wigs and hats and cloaks, And whistle by the house-- Then to a gentle zephyr turn,-- As quiet as a mouse.
Then breaking in an angry fit, I whistle by the bell That hangs within the steeple tall-- And sound a faint, low knell.
By ruins old I make my way-- I tear the ivy vines, And fill with dust and sand and dirt The ancient sculptured lines.
I ramble on the deep, dark sea, And toss those waves of blue; I scare the boasting mariner And tear the sails in two.
The clouds that hang far overhead Are dropping to the sea, The waves as mountains now become-- I roar out in my glee.
The captain stands with face aghast-- With terror in his eyes-- The fork-ed lightning strikes its wings That waft it from the skies.
The thunder stops, the clouds pass by, The waves are resting now; The gallant ship before my breath With magic speed doth plow.
Ye frightened goodly mariners, That angels were before-- The storm has quit, you curse again, You’re sinners wild once more.
And when the next storm rocks the ship, And the thunders roll and roar, You drop upon your knees again-- Art sainted then once more.
I cross the sea, and soon I find Europa’s golden coast-- The Spanish pride;--the English tar Makes well his frequent boast.
I love the clime of Africa-- The dark man’s native home; I love that central, torrid zone Wherever I may roam.
I also love the Northern pole-- Auroras glisten there-- I love the regions still and cold, The icebergs standing bare.
The water trickling down their sides-- I waft them towards the south; The walrus suns him as we go, And opes his giant mouth.
I love to sway the trees in spring When all in green they stand,-- In winter do I move their boughs While roaming o’er the land.
Sometimes I frolic round about Between the earth and sky; And it is true where’er I go A jolly one am I.
I love to whirl the storm around And roar out ev’rywhere, And superstitious people, too, I often sadly scare.