And the gusty wind sullenly moans;
Let them e'en do their worst:—we care not a pin,
Though it's dreary without, we are merry within
As we listen to music's gay tones.
Then of all the months that compose the year,
From January chill, to December drear,
Commend us to November;
For, sure as its period comes around,
Good fellows are over the wine-cup found,—
And 'twas so since we remember.