On winter evenings, cold and blowing,
’Tis good to order “’alf-and-’alf”;
To watch the fire-lit pewter glowing,
And laugh a hearty English laugh;
Or even a sip of mountain whiskey
Can raise a hundred phantoms dear
Of days when boyish blood was frisky,
And no one heard of Lager Bier.
We’ve smoked in summer with Oscanyan,
Cross-legged in that defunct bazaar,