HODGE prest her slender waist around; The FARMER check’d his draught, and frown’d! And now beneath the MISTLETOE ’Twas MISTRESS HOMESPUN’s turn to go; Old Surly shook his wicker chair, And sternly utter’d—“_Let her dare!_” HODGE, to the FARMER’s wife declar’d Such husbands never should be spar’d; Swore, they deserv’d the worst disgrace, That lights upon the wedded race; And vow’d—that night he would not go Unblest, beneath the MISTLETOE. The merry group all recommend An harmless Kiss, the strife to end: “Why not?” says MARG’RY, “who would fear, “A dang’rous moment, once a year?” SUSAN observ’d, that “ancient folks “Were seldom pleas’d with youthful jokes;” But KATE, who, till that fatal hour, Had held, o’er HODGE, unrivall’d pow’r, With curving lip and head aside Look’d down and smil’d in conscious pride, Then, anxious to conceal her care, She humm’d—“_what fools some women are_!” Now, MISTRESS HOMESPUN, sorely vex’d, By pride and jealous rage perplex’d, And angry, that her peevish spouse Should doubt her matrimonial vows, But, most of all, resolved to make An envious rival’s bosom ache; Commanded Hodge to let her go, Nor lead her to the Mistletoe; “Why should you ask it o’er and o’er?” Cried she, “_we’ve been there twice before_!” ’Tis thus, to check a rival’s sway, That Women oft themselves betray; While VANITY, alone, pursuing, They rashly prove, their own undoing. THE _POOR, SINGING DAME_. Beneath an old wall, that went round an old Castle, For many a year, with brown ivy o’erspread; A neat little Hovel, its lowly roof raising, Defied the wild winds that howl’d over its shed: The turrets, that frown’d on the poor simple dwelling, Were rock’d to and fro, when the Tempest would roar, And the river, that down the rich valley was swelling, Flow’d swiftly beside the green step of its door. The Summer Sun, gilded the rushy-roof slanting, The bright dews bespangled its ivy-bound hedge And above, on the ramparts, the sweet Birds were chanting, And wild buds thick dappled the clear river’s edge. When the Castle’s rich chambers were haunted, and dreary, The poor little Hovel was still, and secure; And no robber e’er enter’d, or goblin or fairy, For the splendours of pride had no charms to allure.