Tan-ta-ra-ra-ra-ra! The trumpets blare!
The rival Bards, wild-eyed, with windblown hair,
And close-hugged harps, advance with fire-winged feet
For the green Laureate Laurels to compete;
The laurels vacant from the brows of him
In whose fine light all lesser lustres dim.
Tourney of Troubadours! The laurels lie
On crimson velvet cushion couched on high,
Whilst Punch, Lord-Warden of his country's fame,
Attends the strains to hear, the victor-bard to name.