THE RUSTIC DANCE

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To Jones's tavern, near the ancient woods,

Drive young and old from distant neighborhoods.

Here comes old Crocket with his great bass horn—

Its tone less fit for melody than scorn.

Down through its wrinkled tubes, from first to last,

A century's caravan of song has passed.

The boys and girls, their mirthful sports begun,

With noisy kisses punctuate the fun.

Some youths look on, too bashful to assist

And bear the sweet disgrace of being kissed.

The fiddler comes—his heart a merry store,

And shouts of welcome greet him at the door.

Unlettered man—how rude the jest he flings!

But mark his power to wake the tuneful strings!

The old folks smile and tell how, long ago,

Their feet obeyed the swaying of his bow;

And how the God-sent magic of his art

To thoughts of love inclined the youthful heart,

And shook the bonds of care from aged men

Who 'neath the spell returned to youth again.

He taps the fiddle-back as 'twere a drum;

The raw recruits in Cupid's army come;

And heeding not the praise his playing wins,

The ebullition of his soul begins.

The zeal of Crocket turned to scornful sound,

Pursues the measure like a baying hound.

The fiddle's notes pour forth like showers of rain,

The dancers sway like wind-swept fields of grain,

And midst the storm, to maddening fury stirred,

The thunder of the old bass horn is heard.

Beside the glowing fire, with smiles serene,

An aged couple sit and view the scene.

Grandfather's ears the reveille have caught,

And thronging memories fill the camps of thought.

His heels strike on the floor, with measured beat,

As if to ease a tickling in his feet.

Year after year, for love of kith and kin.

Grandmother's hands have had to toil and spin;

But since the palsy all their cunning stole

Her mind is spinning raiment for the soul,

Of spotless white and beauty fit to wear,

When comes the Bridegroom and the end of care.

So goes the dance until the night is gone

And chanticleer proclaims the breaking dawn.

The waning stars show pale to wearied eyes

And seem to dance cotillions in the skies;

As if, forsooth, upon the journey home

Terpsichore's music filled the starry dome.

Blest be the dance! with noisy pleasure rife

Enough to temper all the woe in life;

What magic power its capering measures hold

To keep the hearts of men from growing old!

Stem Father Time, rejoicing in the scene,

Forbears to reap while yet the fields are green.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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