And the sooty faces, they try to recall....
As they gather around in their spell-struck rings....
But nobody knows that singer at all
Or the curious old-time air he sings:—
Why are you dancing, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
And where did you win you these may-coats so fine;
For some are red as roses, and some are gold as daffodils,
But who, ah, who remembers, now, a little lad of mine?
Lady, we are dancing, as we danced in old England
When the may was more than may, very long ago: