Classic Poem

[ EXTRACTED FROM A WELL-KNOWN ANNUAL .]

O curious reader, didst thou ne'er
Behold a worshipful Lord May'r
Seated in his great civic chair
So dear?

Then cast thy longing eyes this way,
It is the ninth November day,
And in his new-born state survey
One here!

To rise from little into great
Is pleasant; but to sink in state
From high to lowly is a fate
Severe.

Too soon his shine is overcast,
Chilled by the next November blast;
His blushing honors only last
One year!

He casts his fur and sheds his chains,
And moults till not a plume remains —
The next impending May'r distrains
His gear.

He slips like water through a sieve —
Ah, could his little splendor live
Another twelvemonth — he would give
One ear!