’Till autumn’s cold frost sweeps the whole to the tomb.
My emotions, when life seems thus passing and vain,
Even wisdom and prudence can hardly restrain.
Rude winter now comes, and with sleet, hail, and snow,
Right and left sends his arrows, as shivering we go.
Yet I see there’s a chance, even now, to be cheery,
Sitting snug by the fire, with old Robert Merry.
My cosy old friend, no winter is found
Unfurled in thy pages the whole season round!
Still birds sing their songs in some warm, sunny clime,