March 1848 Poem by Peter John Allan

Old creeping Time, your rusty scythe let fall,
Perhaps you then may go a little faster;
Now, like a mourner at a funeral,
You tortoise it along. O earth's great master,
Do spread your wings, and through heaven's azure arch,
Take just one flight and put an end to March.
Hark ye, a deep gruff voice exclaims, 'You stupid,
D'ye see I'm no octogenarian Cupid;
And not for you my jog-trot will I alter,
To bring my dissipated daughter, Spring;
My dancing days are over; I should falter
Should I attempt to fly with such a wing.'
So saying, he displayed, as stiff as starch,
His pinions bright, with icicles in March.