The youthful fiddler, on his three-legged stool,
Fancied himself, at least, an Ole Bull;
Some easy bumpkin, seated on the floor,
Hunted the slipper till his ribs were sore;
Some chose the graceful waltz, or lively reel,
While deeper heads the chess-battalions wheel.
. . . . . .
Old grey-beards felt the glow of youth revive,
Old matrons smiled upon the human hive;
Where life’s rare nectar, fit for gods to sip,