And to my nose I button close
My fur-lined Overcoat.
The Merry May has such a way
Of blowing hot and cold,
That fur and cloth I'm always loth
Away, in Spring, to fold.
Gr-r-r! There's a blast! I'll hold thee fast
Dear friend on whom I doat;
Nor lay thee by till—say—July,
My own, my Overcoat!