SONG OF THE CHILDKEN ABOUT SPUING. 125 



We are going to tell you the tale of mirth, 



A right merry, a joyous tale, 

 About how this Spring cometh back to the earth, 



And everything shouteth all hail ! 



Since Winter must flee ; 



An old tyrant he ! 



III. 



We hate an old fellow 

 Whose beard is gray 

 Who can't be made mellow, 



Who wont be gay, 

 Who is all so shrivelled that he hath no blood, 



And whose breath is so mortal cold, 

 That he couldn't be pleasant if pleasant he would 

 Then he is so piteous old ! 



Yet though he be old he is wonderous strong, 



And weary from far is his flight, 

 And if he but pipeth his terrible song, 



I ween you would shake with affright. 



For though he be thin, he is a lithe eld one, 

 And he hath too, some fierce odd ways 



It's an awsome kind of a glee that has run 

 Through such mirth of his all his days ! 



He has an ugly knack of making fun, 



When he sinketh tall ships at sea, 

 A gurgling whirl-of-a-laugh that hath spun 



Them down ! down, to where Death should be ! 



Then over mountains goes whistling to play 



With 'wildered and wan Traveller, 

 And heapeth and hurtleth snow drifts in his way, 



Until he forgeteth to fear. 



