We love it when it rains to go into the loft,
Up the steps from the cowhouse, and play;
And there to the sound of the rain pattering soft
We tumble and romp in the hay.
From the beams of the granary hangs an old swing
With the half of a chair for a seat;
And upon it we sit as our bodies we fling
Back and forth with the kicking of feet.
Oft-times we will still have a swing when it’s fine
And we cut through the beams of the sun
That down from the cobwebby skylights do shine,
And rats in the corners they run.
The planks of the floor and the bundles of straw
Flash under and under again.
The roof-beams swing down and then up, a see-saw
While ropes on the swivels complain.