In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin,
From the hermit glim set up within;
By the rarer light in girlish eyes
As dark as wells, or as blue as skies.
I hear the laugh when the ear is red,
I see the blush with the forfeit paid,
The cedar cakes with the ancient twist,
The cider cup that the girls have kissed.
And I see the fiddler through the dusk
As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk!"