Through bridge and gateway we’re shooting straightway, Their tollman was too slow! He’ll listen after our song and laughter As over the hill we go. The girls cry, “Fie! for shame!” Their cheeks and lips are red, And so, with kisses, kisses, kisses, They take the toll instead. Still follow, follow! across the hollow The tavern fronts the road. Whoa, now! all steady! the host is ready,— He knows the country mode! The irons are in the fire, The hissing flip is got; So pour and sip it, sip it, sip it, And sip it while ’tis hot. Push back the tables, and from the stables Bring Tom, the fiddler, in; All take your places, and make your graces, And let the dance begin. The girls are beating time To hear the music sound; Now foot it, foot it, foot it, foot it, And swing your partners round. Last couple toward the left! all forward! Cotillons through, let’s wheel: First tune the fiddle, then down the middle In old Virginia Reel. Play Money Musk to close, Then take the “long chassé,” While in to supper, supper, supper, The landlord leads the way. The bells are ringing, the ostlers bringing The cutters up anew; The beasts are neighing; too long we’re staying, The night is half-way through. Wrap close the buffalo-robes, We’re all aboard once more; Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, Away from the tavern-door So follow, follow, by hill and hollow, And swiftly homeward glide. What midnight splendor! how warm and tender The maiden by your side! The sleighs drop far apart, Her words are soft and low; Now, if you love her, love her, love her, ’Tis safe to tell her so. PAN IN WALL STREET. A. D. 1867. Just where the Treasury’s marble front Looks over Wall Street’s mingled nations; Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quotations; Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people, The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled From Trinity’s undaunted steeple,— Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamor, Above the cries of greed and gain, The curbstone war, the auction’s hammer; And swift, on Music’s misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood At ease against a Doric pillar: One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pan’s-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned.