EARLY SPRING.
Once more the North-east wind
Chills all anew,
And tips the redden'd nose
With colder blue;
Makes blackbirds hoarse as crows,
And poets too.
The town with nipping blasts
How wildly blown;
Around my hapless head
Loose tiles are thrown,
Slates, chimney-pots, and lead
Of weight unknown.
My tile and chimney-pot
Flies through the air.
My eyes are full of dust,
My head is bare,
A state of things that must
Soon make me swear!
When thus in early Spring
My joys are few,
I'll warm myself at home
With "Mountain Dew,"
Or fly to Nice, or Rome,
Or Timbuctoo.
