NOVEMBER

Poets may proclaim the praises

Of some fragrant April day,

Search their lexicons for phrases

To describe the dew-drenched daisies

Of each merry May;

Minor bards may work like niggers,

Framing epic rhyme or rune,

To extol the timely rigours

Of an English June;

Though its charms I well remember,

I prefer November!

Though the tourists sing together

When July is warm and bright,

While to sportsmen on the heather,

Bent on bagging fur and feather,

August brings delight;

Though September's seldom stormy,

And October, chill and dry,

Carries joy to every Dormy-

House from Wick to Rye;

Yet ( since I am not a member )

I prefer November!

In the street the slime may spatter

Ev'ry wretched passer-by;

Hail and sleet and snow may batter

On my window-pane — what matter?

What on earth care I?

Other months may be less muddy,

Or a fairer face present;

In my cheerful firelit study

I am quite content!

Seated by the glowing ember,

I prefer November!