That after Christmas who shall say will last?
Now, pens are busy writing out "old scores,"
And birds get pert and hop about our doors,
Fighting their comrades for the largest crumbs.
See that old lady shivering as she goes,
Furr'd to the eyes, and muffled to the nose,
And he who thumps his sides to warm his thumbs.
Mark the lone berry on the Mountain Ash
Like a child's coral on a leafless twig—
Watch the Tom-tit