When now (that morn) Aurora ope’d the course,
And Sol strode forth, eight charmers bid discourse;
Their firstling-notes, borne on the balmy breeze,
Bestirr’d the rooks in the adjacent trees;
“Ring, ting, ting, tong, this is our song,”—say they—
To rouse ye sleepers for the holiday:
A thousand flues erst wind their dingy smoke;
Whilst children run, half nude, to have a look,
And listen to the mimic guns as they
Peal forth applausive of th’ auspicious day:
The streets are now invaded by gay youths
Prebent already on the comfit booths;
And as the morning grows show signs of love
Whilst sauntering through the artificial grove:
The gentry-residents command the throng,
And at the time appointed march along
Towards the bound’ry, there (some frolicking)
They ’wait th’ arrival of their local king.