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By the frost severely bitten, grows as frigid as a stone,
When he scuttles like a lizard through the bitter biting blizzard,
Which benumbs his very gizzard and which chills him to the bone;
When the constable stands scowling, where the hurricane is howling,
Or goes miserably prowling, with no shelter from the storm,
And the working-man, half-fuddled, jug to bosom closely cuddled,
In each public-house is huddled, in his efforts to get warm;
Then the poet (known as 'minor') deems it suitable to sing
That there's nothing much diviner than the pleasures of the Spring!
(Where her favourite is playing), grows as crusty as a crab,
While her fiance ungainly -- so unlike dear Harry Ainley! --
In the snow is seeking vainly (ah! how vainly! ) for a cab;
When he cusses and she fusses, as they note how full each 'bus is
Of that crowd of oafs and hussies it refuses to disgorge,
Till they hail some passing taxi, with expressions wild and waxy
(Like the language Leo Maxse always uses of Lloyd George)!
With her windswept skirt she battles, to his hat he tries to cling,
While the poet sweetly prattles of the pleasures of the Spring!
