Praise of Thee

'tis Autumn now these Early night's
may still the voice of all the birds,
and soon the winter chill will fright
these old bones to lie abed, unstirred...
 
But I have poker near to hand
a roaring fire in the grate,
a mug of foaming ale, right grand,
and I shall mull it when it gets late.
 
Seventy two, will I reach the three?
but here's the ale, 'tis faith I hold!
I raise it up, in praise of thee,
in sureness 'twill keep out, the cold...