Page:Poems Cook.djvu/230

No down-cover'd peaches are found on the board,
 There's no sparkling Bucellas to sip;
But stain'd fingers proclaim that the walnuts are stored,
 And red wine is deep'ning the lip.

Winter is here—all the flowers are dead,
 No posy is gracing the room;
But coral and pearls of rare lustre are spread
 In the holly and mistletoe bloom.
The herds are brought in from the verdureless hills
 To their coverts, for shelter and food;
The trout nestle deep in the rush-border'd rills,
 The rooks have come back to their wood.

Winter is here—the old, tottering man,
 Closely muffled, goes shivering forth;
The bare-headed urchins laugh loud as they can,
 With their glowing cheeks turn'd to the north.
The seat 'neath the beeches is tenantless now;
 There's no loitering form in the shade;
But the dance gives a warmth and a flush to the brow,
 While the quickest of jig tunes is play'd.

Winter is here—let us welcome him on,
 Remember Old Christmas is near;
And when Christmas with all his gay feasting has gone,
 Why then we've the merry New Year.
Here's a health to the rich who will give to the poor,—
 Let Plenty and Mercy ne'er part;
And though bitter winds blow through the white clouds of snow,
 No Winter shall fall on the heart.

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