You don’t see many weathercocks these days. Perhaps the rigours of the job deter all but the hardiest of applicants. Ever thought what it would it be like to spend your life swivelling around on top of a church spire? Here’s the answer from one who’s had enough; but he can dream . . .
I suppose you think I’m lucky, perched up here atop this steeple,
Looking out across the countryside and down on all you people.
Well, think again – high altitude and panoramic views
Are not much use to a cock who’s got no cock-a-doodle-doos.
And weathercock’s a silly name to call me; after all,
I can’t foretell the weather, I can’t tell if rain will fall,
I can’t predict a sunny spell, or warn you that a gale
Or hurricane is coming that is off the Beaufort scale.
I’ve been aloft for ages, getting pitted and encrusted.
There’s bird-lime on my crop, and my pivot’s worn and rusted.
My N and S have fallen off, their arms had rusted through;
The W and E came loose, and soon they’d dropped off, too.
I don’t like heights at the best of times, but when the wind gets blowing
And the lightning zaps and the thunder claps, well I don’t feel much like crowing.
Oh, you lot are all right, you’re not stuck here in all weathers
With no cover ’gainst the elements and not a hint of feathers.
The worst thing is the solitude, I’ve got no soul mates near.
Us weathercocks are miles apart – it’s lonely stuck up here.
Maybe they’ll build a church nearby, with a steeple. Oh, and then
Perhaps they’ll fix on top of it a gorgeous weatherhen . . .