And set at each end of the floor:
He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle,
At turns of the music so sweet
He makes such a thundering brattle,
The floor seems afraid of his feet.
This couple being seated, rose Bob up,
He wish’d to make one in a jig;
But a Wellington lad set his gob up,—
O’er him there should none “run the rig.”
For now ’twas his turn for a caper,