And crowned our feasting with some gentle songs,
Instead of simply drinking in the glamour,
The charm of it, he had the cheek to hammer
The party-wall with pokers and with tongs.
Ah, me! that Art should suffer such disdain!
But what can one expect in time of war?
Mayhap our minstre'sy had given pain
To some tired patriot in bed next-door—
Some weary soul that all day fashions fuses,
To whom his sleep is more than all the Muses—