Punch, April 8, 1903


The weather (in the past
 Emphatically bitter),
Seems to have changed at last.
 The birds begin to twitter.

The rivers, decked with sedge,
 In lavish streams are flowing.
On every side the veg-
 -Etables, too, are growing.

The young man’s fancy turns
 In almost all directions;
Promiscuously burns
 The lamp of his affections.

Approaches now the close
 Of Rugby and of “Socker;”
The football jersey goes
 Back to its native locker.

To make rough meadows flat
 The cricketer is toiling;
He scans his favourite bat,
 In case the thing wants oiling.

The bard begins to tear
 His hyacinthine tresses,
Or polishes with care
 Last year’s returned M.S.S.

The farmer once again—
 I learn from one who knows it—
Takes quantities of grain,
 And walks about and sows it.

Dear friends, who hear my song,
 Of brain decay acquit me.
That explanation’s wrong—
 I’ll make it clear. Permit me.

The reason why I sing,
 The point at which I’m driving,
Is simply this: that Spring
 Is rapidly arriving.




Unsigned verse as printed; credited to P. G. Wodehouse in the Index to Vol. 124 of Punch.