In seasons past we snatch'd, 'tis true, Some tit - bits by our cunning; Our
shoes, alas, are now danced through, On our bare soles we're running.
From marshy bogs we sprang to light, Yet here behold us dancing; The gayest
gallants of the night, In glitt'ring rows advancing.
With rapid motion from on high, I shot in starry splendour; Now prostrate on
the grass I lie; Who aid will kindly render?
Room! wheel round! They're coming lo! Down sink the bending grasses.
Though spirits, yet their limbs, we know, Are huge substantial masses.