My sip of punch was in its ladle;
The clarion chimes were in the sky;
The nascent year was in its cradle.
In sober prose to tell my tale,
'Twas New Year's E'en, when, blind to danger,
All older-fashioned nurses hail
With joy "another little stranger."
The glass was in my hand—but, wait,
Methought, awhile! 'Tis early toasting
With pæans too precipitate