"O! charming May!"
That's what they say.
The saying is not new,—
The saying is not true;—
O! May!
Bare fields and icebound streams,
Sunshine in fitful gleams,
May smile
Beguile,
And dispel poets' dreams.
Was ever May so gay
As what the poets say?
If so,
We know,
We live not in their day.
A cosy coat and wrap,
You may not find mishap—
Propo
You know
When comes the next cold snap.
A heavy woollen scarf,
Strong boots that reach the calf,—
Away we go
Through snow and slush and wet,—
And can we once forget
'Tis May? Oh, no!
Best is the old advice
Which we so oft despise,
"Cast not a clout
Till May goes out."
May like a maiden, lies.
A Maypole dance.—O, my!
Such sport is all "my eye,"
Just try,
I tried it and I know,
The snow, the blow,
The aching toes, the smarting nose.
I all defied,
And loudly cried
"Come on,
Each one,
Be gay! be gay!—'Tis May! Tis May"
They laughed and shook the head,
And this is what they said,
"Old Skunk, he's drunk."
Still we do love her so,—
Her truth? O, no!
She's like some fancy fickle,
She lands you in a pickle,
You grin and bear,
Maybe you swear
In manner most alarming,
And yet—Sweet May is charming.