Behold my pinch’d red nose—my shrivell’d cheeks:
You should not have such carriages as these.
In vain I stamp to warm my aching feet,
I only paddle in a pool of slush;
My stiffen’d hands in vain I blow and beat;
Tears from my eyes congealing as they gush.
Keen blows the wind; the sleet comes pelting down,
And here I’m standing in the open air!
Long is my dreary journey up to town,
That is, alive, if ever I get there.