THE FOUR SEASONS

Two wayward imps, all smiles or tears,

With large round eyes of ceaseless wonder,

Small pitchers with extensive ears,

And fingers prone to urchin plunder.

Two whisp’ ring lovers — blissful pair!

Is he the rogue? or hath she trick’ d him?

Unless he dupes his mistress there,

The chances are, he’ ll fall a victim.

Two toiling ones of sober age

( Their bet with Care a losing wager );

They own, though now so very sage,

They might have been a trifle sager!

Two frail old wretches, sick and sad,

Yet sore dismayed lest Death should take them,

— Come, hang it, things, though passing bad,

Are not so bad as some would make them:

For, like yon clock, when twelve shall sound,

The call these poor old souls obeying,

Together shall their hands be found,

An earnest they are humbly praying!