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The great storm will come when Monday's a day,
All the world of the air will outpour,
And through all its lasting we shall obey,
We whose ears will be filled with its roar.
The freezing will come when Tuesday's a day,
All pain to the heart and piercing fine,
Flecking from the cheeks, though pale of array,
Blood as red as the red-pouring wine.
The wind it will blow when Wednesday's a day,
Sweeping bare down the strath and the plain,
Sharp-showering the gusts that cut and slay,
Thunderclaps and mountains split in twain.
The rain it will pour when Thursday's a day,
Driving men into blind rushing flight,
Faster than leaves which scurry from the spray,
A-shake like Mary's plant-leaves in fright.
The dark cloud will come when Friday's a day,
The direst dread that ever was known,
Multitudes left with their reason astray,
Grass and fish underneath the one stone.
The great sea will come when Saturday's a day,
Full of anger, full of sorrow's pain,
As he hears the bitter words all men say,
A red cross on each right shoulder lain.
