Impromptu, on Mrs. Riddel's birthday

Old Winter with his frosty beard,

Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,—

'What have I done of all the year,

To bear this hated doom severe?

My cheerless suns no pleasure know;

Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow;

My dismal months no joys are crowning,

But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,

To counterbalance all this evil;

Give me, and I've no more to say,

Give me Maria's natal day!

That brilliant gift will so enrich me,

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me;'

''Tis done!' says Jove; so ends my story,

And Winter once rejoic'd in glory.