MARCH IN NOVEMBER.
"Blow, blow, thou winter wind,"
In verse some call thee wind.
Though Thursday's crowd was thinned
By blasts so unrefined,
And men in armour, tinnèd
Like lobsters, mutely pined—
They, later, "wined" and "ginned,"
Whilst guests superbly dined
On turtle, fish (that's finned),
Joints, game of matchless kind,
And wines, rare, old, long-binned.
Blow clear, before, behind,
The streets where lately dinned
The band—each man, defined,
Of Vaterland the kind—
And sightless singers whined
Not much like Jenny Lind;
Would they were dumb, not blind!
Whilst grinders grimly grinned,
And ground their graceless grind.
I swore; perhaps I sinned.
But now they seem to find
Their rags, just tied and pinned,
Let in thy blast unkind,
By which they're almost skinned.
Then blow, I do not mind,
Thou rough November wind—
Pronounced by many, wind.