  Once on a time, not many days ago, When many taught there was no hell below, Not in the spring, or lovely month of May, When birds did sweetly sing, and fields look’d gay, When flowers were fresh, and opening buds were fair, When brides look’d lovely—blossoms in their hair; Oh, no! ’twas the last day of dying year, A raw, cold winter’s day, frosty and clear; What then took place, permit me to rehearse, Not in stale prose, but in more lively verse; And if, perchance, to make complete a rhyme, Or try to make a jingling couplet chime, I should speak boldly—but, of course, sincere— Don’t think the truth I utter too severe; And do not say—“thou little groveling elf, Turn thine eyes inward—look upon thyself.” Most flattering words from eager lips may fly, But shall I pause to harmonize a lie? If, with my pen, I use most comic art, To ’mend the manners, or reform the heart, Don’t think I do it out of any spite; Surely! I would not libel one, a mite. I use fictitious names—the facts I give In a mild form, to save the sensitive. |
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