For some ridiculous reason, to which, however, I've no desire to be disloyal, Some person in authority, I don't know who, very likely the Astronomer Royal, Has decided that, although for such a beastly month as February, twenty-eight days as a rule are plenty, One year in every four his days shall be reckoned as nine and-twenty. Through some singular coincidence -- I shouldn't be surprised if it were owing to the agency of an ill-natured fairy-- You are the victim of this clumsy arrangement, having been born in leap-year, on the twenty-ninth of February; And so, by a simple arithmetical process, you'll easily discover, That though you've lived twenty-one years, yet, if we go by birthdays, you're only five and a little bit over!