Dead in the cold, a song-singing thrush, Dig him a grave where the soft mosses grow, I dug and dug amongst the snow, And thought the flowers would never grow; I dug and dug amongst the sand, And still no green thing came to hand. Melt, O snow! the warm winds blow A city plum is not a plum; A dumb-bell is no bell, though dumb; A party rat is not a rat; A sailor's cat is not a cat; A soldier's frog is not a frog; |