“All hail to this snow-covered alien shore,”
Quoth the boodler, disporting a plug;
“Far better the sweep of the boreal blast
Than a bed in the circumscribed jug.
“But, alas! for the fellows who lingered too late;
We think of them ever with pain,
For they lost the rich spoils of municipal war
By waiting too late for the train.”
Was it the moonbeam so suddenly bright?