Hodge prest her slender waist around;
The Farmer check’d his draught, and frown’d!
And now beneath the Mistletoe
’Twas Mistress Homespun’s turn to go;
Old Surly shook his wicker chair,
And sternly utter’d—“Let her dare!”
Hodge, to the Farmer’s wife declar’d
Such husbands never should be spar’d;
Swore, they deserv’d the worst disgrace,
That lights upon the wedded race;