If fog and slush hold sway;
Nor yet the tumbles you must bear
If frost should win the day;
Nor sleepless nights—they're sure to come—
When "waits" attune their lay;
Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness
Might turn macassar gray;
Nor boisterous children, home in heaps,
And ravenous of play;
Nor yet—in fact, the host of ills