Behold! thou wip'st thy crimson chin,
And all is discord, all is din;
While scalded waiters swear thee in
With many an execration.
"Yet, Lucas, smile in Fortune's spite;
Dark mornings often change to bright;
Ne'er shall this omen harm a wight
So active and so clever.
How buoyant, how elastic thou!
With a lamp halo round thy brow,