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.