Classic Poem

When window-panes are smeared,
And the hearth is spurting blue,
When the trees are black and weird,
And the hill owl calls “Who?” “Who?”
It 's to good fellows would get up
For an old-time round of song and the cup.
Blow, blow, wind, blow
Across the snow;
Rattle casement, curtain wave!
A friend is no friend an he stays in his grave.

When iron is the rut,
And the wind wolves sniff and growl,
Tug the spigot from the butt,
And let the lean dogs howl.
Fill bellied pitchers to the snout
For friends to empty, turn about;
Set here and there
A comrade's chair;
Wet your throat, and set the stave!
A friend is no friend an he stays in his grave.