Drive young and old from distant neighborhoods.
Here comes old Crocket with his great bass horn—
Its tone less fit for melody than scorn.
Down through its wrinkled tubes, from first to last,
A century's caravan of song has passed.
The boys and girls, their mirthful sports begun,
With noisy kisses punctuate the fun.
Some youths look on, too bashful to assist
And bear the sweet disgrace of being kissed.
The fiddler comes—his heart a merry store,