Chapter I

July was wet,--a thing not rare--
With sodden ground and chilly air;
The sky presented everywhere
A low-pitched roof of doleful grey;
With a rain-flusht flood the river ran;
Adown it floated a dying Swan,
And loudly did lament.
It was the middle of the day,
The "Swanherd" and his men went on,
"Nicking" the cygnets as they went.