Dullest month of all the year,—
Suicidal atmosphere,
Everything is dark and drear,
Filling nervous minds with fear,
Skies are seldom ever clear,
Fogs are ever hov'ring near,—
'Tis a heavy load to bear.
Were it not that life is dear,
We should wish to disappear,
For it puts us out of gear.
But in vain we shed the tear,
We must still cling to the rear
Of the year that now is near.
Though our eyes begin to blear,
With fogs thick enough to shear,
And we feel inclined to swear,
At the month that comes to smear
All things lovely, all things dear;
We must bear and yet forbear.
But some thoughts our spirits cheer,
Christmas time will soon be here,
Then at thee we'll scoff and jeer,
Smoke our pipes and drink our beer,—
Sit until brave chanticleer
Tells us that the morn is here.
Do thy worst, November drear!
We can stand it, never fear,—
Christmas time will soon be here.