A Hymn To The Lares.

It was, and still my care is, To worship ye, the Lares, With crowns of greenest parsley And garlic chives, not scarcely; For favours here to warm me, And not by fire to harm me; For gladding so my hearth here With inoffensive mirth here; That while the wassail bowl here With North-down ale doth troul here, No syllable doth fall here To mar the mirth at all here. For which, O chimney-keepers! (I dare not call ye sweepers) So long as I am able To keep a country table, Great be my fare, or small cheer, I'll eat and drink up all here.