  A BALMY breeze o’er London plays, The summer sun is shining, The weather’s clerk has (scandal says) Undoubtedly been dining. Old fogeys sit about the parks, And “Dear, can you remember,” Old Darby to old Joan remarks, “Such mildness in December?” When Master Sandford takes his walks Abroad with Master Merton, He says, “O, ain’t I hot, O lawks, With my thick flannel shirt on!” “My pupils will take notice, please,” Exclaims the Reverend Barlow, “It’s warmer here by seven degrees Than ’tis in Monte Carlo.” For garden-seats the public run To Shoolbred’s and to Maple’s; It’s five degrees more in the sun In London than in Naples! I shut my eyes and dream a dream About our winter season, That does not seem to have a gleam Of common-sense or reason. I dream that from the southern land The foreigners are flocking; They promenade along the Strand, The Thames Embankment blocking. The train de luxe from every part Brings foreigners to London; The Riviera breaks its heart, Algeria is undone. In search of sun from Southern Spain The Andalusian wanders; The Roman lolls in Drury Lane, The Turk in Holborn ponders. The world this mild December flocks To our delightful climate; Rich Russian ’gainst rich German knocks, And princeling jostles primate. The great hotels are packed and jammed, And all the trades are booming, The theatres and cafÉs crammed, And summer roses blooming. I dream a dream of London made A winter spot delightful; I wake from sleep, and start dismayed To find the weather frightful! No balmy breeze o’er London plays, No summer sun is shining; ’Tis not the clerk (so scandal says) But I who have been dining. |
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