On all, save poor Alice, who, distraite, deject,
Has refused to take part in this riotous revel,
And wished those who did with the—Father of Evil.
The mirth was at its loudest, the humblest and the proudest
Were hobnobbing together, as though the dearest friends;
While some for wine were bawling, there were others loudly calling
For a song,—that ancient fiction which e’er to misery tends;
When Sir Walter grasped the table—rose, as well as he was able—
And entreated for a moment that his guests would give him heed:
“’Tis St. Michael’s Eve,—a time accursèd by a crime