Tis said, in ancient days he dwelt
In bowers of blooming roses,
Whilst nigh him, on the fragrant turf,
Warm Zephyr’s wing reposes;
But now he can blow hot and cold,
Just like the fabled satyr,
And chill your blood, and cramp your bones,
And make your old teeth chatter.
Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring!
You are a precious turncoat,