The stately old rooster a-strutting did go,
His dun-coloured feathers all waved to and fro
In the hoary air of the morning.
And his busby of red
Hung over his head
As all other fowls he was scoring.
The fierce rain came on and his feathers he dropped,
And into the little black barrel he popped,
And here he remained till the short shower stopped,
And the roof of the barrel stopped mouring.