Sir Winter.
Sir Winter is coming across the wide sea,
With his blustering companions, so wild and so free:
He speeds on his way, like some bold buccaneer,
And Day flies before him with faltering and fear.
In the front of the battle new trophies to reap,
Mid the howl of the tempest, the roar of the deep,
Lo, he comes
with his noiseless-shod legions of snow
And nips the last buds that were lingering to blow.
Sweet blackbird is silenced with chaffinch and thrush,
Only waistcoated robin still chirps in the bush:
Soft sun-loving swallows have mustered in force
And winged to the spice-teaming southlands their course.
Plump housekeeper dormouse has tucked himself neat,
Just a brown ball in moss with a morsel to eat;
Armed hedgehog has huddled him into the hedge
While frogs miss freezing deep down in the sedge.
So sturdy Sir Winter has conquered us quite,
He has ravaged our country to left and to right:
Since we must bear his yoke for a season, we'd best
Try to lighten its weight on ourselves and the rest.
Soft swallows have left us alone in the lurch,
But robin sits whistling to us from his perch:
If I were red robin, I'd pipe you a tune
Would make you despise all the beauties of June.
But since that cannot be, let us draw round the fire,
Munch chestnuts, tell stories, and stir the blaze higher:
We'll comfort pinched robin with crumbs, little man,
Till he sings us the very best song that he can.
