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!