First published in Punch, April 8, 1903.


A Pastoral
By
P.G. Wodehouse

The weather (in the past
Emphatically bitter),
Seems to have changed at last.
The birds begin to twitter.

The rivers, decked with sedge,
In lavish streams are flowing.
On every side the veg-
Etables, too, are growing.

The young man's fancy turns
In almost all directions;
Promiscuously burns
The lamp of his affections.

Approaches now the close
Of Rugby and of "Socker;"
The football jersey goes
Back to its native locker.

To make rough meadows flat
The cricketer is toiling;
He scans his favourite bat,
In case the thing wants oiling.

The Bard begins to tear
His hyacinthine tresses,
Or polishes with care
Last years returned M.S.S.

The farmer once again -
I learn from one who knows it -
Takes quantities of grain,
And walks about and sows it.

Dear friends who hear my song,
Of brain decay acquit me.
That explanation's wrong-
I'll make it clear. Permit me.

The reason why I sing,
The point at which I'm driving,
Is simply this: that Spring 
Is rapidly arriving.