WE like March, his shoes are purple,
        He is new and high;
Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
        Makes he forest dry;
Knows the adder's tongue his coming,
        And begets her spot.
Stands the sun so close and mighty
        That our minds are hot.
News is he of all the others;
        Bold it were to die
With the blue-birds buccaneering
        On his British sky.