I light up a spark to dispel it;
And if snarlers exclaim, ‘What’s this laughing fool’s name?’
Next verse of my ballad will tell it.
“I’m a brat of old Horace—the song-scribbling Morris,
More noted for rhyme than for reason;
One who roars and carouses, makes noise in all houses,
And takes all good things in their season.
To this classic of joy, I became when a boy
A pupil most ardent and willing;
And through life as a man, I’ve stuck fast to this plan,