'Tis the hour when white-horsed Day Chases Night her mares away; When the Gates of Dawn (they say) Phoebus opes: And I gather that the Queen May be uniformly seen, Should the weather be serene, On the slopes. When the ploughman, as he goes Leathern-gaitered o'er the snows, From his hat and from his nose Knocks the ice; And the panes are frosted o'er, And the lawn is crisp and hoar, As has been observed before Once or twice. When arrayed in breastplate red Sings the robin, for his bread, On the elmtree that hath shed Every leaf; While, within, the frost benumbs The still sleepy schoolboy's thumbs, And in consequence his sums Come to grief. But when breakfast-time hath come, And he's crunching crust and crumb, He'll no longer look a glum Little dunce; But be brisk as bees that settle On a summer rose's petal: Wherefore, Polly, put the kettle On at once.