Then thanks from all his countless tribe
(Henceforth their joy to him ascribe,)
When in their pockets sly they bribe,
’Neath school-dame’s glances,
With bits of string, wi’ top, and ball,
Thy cannie self, thou Harp so small,
Watching the sun creep on the wall,
Till noon advances.
Ah! relic of that guileless day!
As now I list thy humble lay