Classic Poem

A jolly landlord and a blazing fire;
Without the snow, the sleet.
Let the bleak winter wreak his heart's desire!
Here the old friends we meet.

While fast the shadows of the night are falling
No comfort shall we lack;
For is not Falstaff from a corner calling:
“Sirrah, a cup of sack?”

It is no time for grief—for melancholy;
Great tales there are to tell.
The “Sluggish Knight” drinks with the friar jolly—
Not from Saint Dunstan's well.

Trampling of feet—voices in hallways humming;
Here a tired traveller nods;
A trumpet sounds “The coach—the coach is coming!—
O for a coach, ye gods!”

Care is a river, but we've crossed the ferry
To where the bright fields bloom.
Chaucer comes in with tales of Canterbury;
Room for the old man—room!

He scarce hath told the tale, sweet in the telling,
Ere a glad eye discerns
A gentler guest. A chorus glad is swelling:
“'Fore God, here's Bobby Burns!”

Was ever yet so wonderful a party?
Dash down, O wintry rain!
Clink glasses, O my masters drink ye hearty
Until we meet again!