And bring the old lopsided chair, the tattered cushion, too—
We’ll make the stranger happy there, the way we used to do.
The years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog,
Yet spend another night with me around the boree log.
He’ll fill his pipe, and good and well, and all aglow within
We’ll hear the news he has to tell, the yarns he has to spin;
Yarns—yes, and super-yarns, forsooth, to set the eyes agog,
And freeze the blood of trusting youth around the boree log.
Then stir it up and make it burn; the poker’s next to you;
Come, let us poke it all in turn, the way we used to do.