 | [Poems by Tabb in] Father Tabb |  |
THE WHISTLER
'Tis spring; but laidIn ambuscade
The Snow malignant lingers,
And on the hill
The March wind still
At times must blow his fingers.
| [Poems by Tabb in] Father Tabb | |
In ambuscade
The Snow malignant lingers,
And on the hill
The March wind still
At times must blow his fingers.