To remember their danger and think of poor Dan;
She cried and she screamed, but they every one ran
And left their hen-mamma so anxious and fond,
Like so many gosling, to swim in the pond.
And what though the fiddlers felt sleepy and droned
Or even the fiddles went harsh and untoned,
So long as the drum was sufficiently jarred,
The dance was too maudlin to feel the discord,
The witling went whirling in ancient ghwazee,
But just what to call it no two could agree.