The raw recruits in Cupid's army come;
And heeding not the praise his playing wins,
The ebullition of his soul begins.
The zeal of Crocket turned to scornful sound,
Pursues the measure like a baying hound.
The fiddle's notes pour forth like showers of rain,
The dancers sway like wind-swept fields of grain,
And midst the storm, to maddening fury stirred,
The thunder of the old bass horn is heard.
Beside the glowing fire, with smiles serene,