To many a merry sally;
I sparkle, and to ashes turn,
Men’s spirits worn to rally.
Thrice thirty ills that press folks down,
I fumigate like midges;
In country, city, little town,
My charm some care abridges.
Yon chattering Stiggins with a craze,
In little sharps and trebles,
A hubbub makes in my dispraise—