  I STOOD and I shivered last Sunday night Till I bade them set the fire alight, Then I sat with my feet on the fender bar, And I told them to bring me the whisky jar. I filled me a glass, and I held it high As I glared at the gray and the gloomy sky, And I sang to a sad funereal tune The doleful dirge of an English June. “O gruesome herald of Whitsun week,” I cried as I gazed on the prospect bleak, “The blazing heat of our one hot day Has fried us up and has passed away; And the weary summer of blights and chills Has come to us big with its thousand ills, And the lips of the lovers are blue who spoon In Regent’s Park in our English June. A red nose pressed to the window-pane, The swirling dust and the threatening rain, A blue-black blight in the raw rough air, A cut-throat climate and dull despair; A tear for the days that will come no more, A dose of physic at twelve and four. And that is my Sunday afternoon In the Arctic arms of an English June. |
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