A poet could scarce fail of making a hit,
Inspired by the presence of beauty and wit!
Alas, for the days of our ancestors bold,
When the wassail was drunk, brave stories were told,
While the mirth of the feasters grew louder and higher,
And the bard struck the quivering chords of the lyre,
Without an apology, blush, or evasion,
Or stammering reference to—“this occasion,”
As raising his voice o’er the tumult and din,
He recounted in song all the fights they’d been in.