A beetle bug has bit my coat
And ta'en a crescent moon,
Whether to muffle round his throat
Or felt a pair of shoon.
God knows I do not want the part.
He 's welcome to 't with all my heart!

Only, poor bug, I bid him 'ware
November fierce and free!
The biting frost will soon be here
To bite more sharp than he.
If he 'll return, he shall have wool
To round the crescent moon to full.