Classic Poem

Sure never was heard so berhymed & beriddled!
Why I feel like the man in the forest befiddled
Into the rings of the dancing brides—
Till his featness of foot brought him under the tides.
But hark boys! hark! the merry bells peal,
And the snowy hills are calling,
The vapours freeze, the mists congeal,
And the large white flakes are falling—
It is the death of the good old year,
And I must carry him off on his bier.
For the old must make way for the new boys,
As your fathers made way for you, boys,
And as you'll make way for those, boys,
Who will come when you wear the snows, boys.