MARCH, you're a jolly old fellow, I know;

They may call you a blustering old chap but you blow

For us boys and our kites, and we don't care a fig 

For the hats and the dust that go dancing a jig.

Puff out, you old fellow, blow hard or blow high, 

At our kites you may bluster, and " blow them sky-high!"

Nobody will find any fault but the girls— 

And they make a fuss 'cause you "blow out their curls!''

You 're just our own season we've waited for you; 

Our kites are all ready, so strong and so new! 

You jolly old fellow, if you were a boy, 

You'd know why the March-month gives us such joy.

It is fun to stand high on the top of a hill, 

And pay out your string let it run with a will; 

It is fun to "hold hard" while your kite pulls away, 

And the wind blows a gale! Ah, kite-flying is gay.

The ladies complain that you "blow off their veils;" 

But never you mind, give no heed to their tales, 

Devote yourself wholly to boys and their kites, 

And trust to the boys to fight hard for your rights:

For, March, you're the jolliest old fellow we know, 

And we like you the better the harder you blow! 

When you marched in upon us we gave you a shout, 

And we'll miss you at last when 'tis time to march out!— 

Wide Awake.