(Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born,
They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,
No fashions varying as the hues of morn.
Just as they pleased they dressed, and drank, and ate,
Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn),
And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,
And were, no doubt, extremely incorrect.
Yet do I think their theory was pleasant:
And oft, I own, my “wayward fancy roams”
Back to those times, so different from the present;