When birds did sweetly sing, and fields look’d gay,
When flowers were fresh, and opening buds were fair,
When brides look’d lovely—blossoms in their hair;
Oh, no! ’twas the last day of dying year,
A raw, cold winter’s day, frosty and clear;
What then took place, permit me to rehearse,
Not in stale prose, but in more lively verse;
And if, perchance, to make complete a rhyme,
Or try to make a jingling couplet chime,
I should speak boldly—but, of course, sincere—