Each cricket was invited, 'twas after twelve at night;
The fire was burning brightly, and not a puss in sight,
When out popped twenty couples, all chirping loud and clear:
The moon peeped in the window, as if it paused to hear.
The band stood on a table,—a fiddle and a harp;
The former was a trifle flat, the latter rather sharp:
But, oh the jolly dancing, the capers queer and gay!
Why, pigeon-wings were nothing, and double-shuffles, play.
The belles reclined in corners, and chatted to the beaux,
Who looked so neat and graceful, each turning out his toes;
And all the daddy-crickets were happy as could be,
Their little baby-crickets they dandled on their knee.
A Daddy Longlegs handed a lady out to dance,—
'Twas said he was a baron,—quite modest was her glance;
He kissed her hand politely, his style they all admired;
He bowed to her sedately; she courtesied and retired.
A dozen tiny crickets then tried a minuet,
And many other dances whose names you would forget.
The fiddler scraped up louder, a mouse peeped out to see;
But laughed his head off nearly to mark such jollity!
The supper, oh, that supper! From brimming cups of dew
They sipped, and luscious goodies were spread out,—not a few.
They handed round in slices a dainty Christmas cake
That very much resembled a tiny snowy flake.
They didn't stop till morning; they heard a rooster crow,
And then the merry fiddler put away his bow;
And twenty jolly couples with weary legs retire
As Bridget pops in lively to make the kitchen-fire.
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