And will you guarantee us from subjection to the plumber?
Will no casual icy splinter from the serried spears of Winter
Put a chill upon your smile, and spoil the promise of the Summer?
We've been waiting worn and weary, till e'en cuckoo-songs sound cheery,
And belated almond-blossoms show like roses of Cashmere:
And the cockney chaunt now flowing, "All-a-blowing and a-growing!"
Falls far sweeter than Mascagni upon London's longing ear.
Where on earth have you been hiding? We are in no mood for chiding,
But mid-April's rather late, dear, for what should have come in March!
What malignant hocus-pocus has kept back the plucky crocus,