O, The Fun, The Fun And Frolic That The Wind That Shakes The Barley Scatters Through A Penny-Whistle Tickled With Artistic Fingers! Kate The Scrubber (Forty Summers, Stout But Sportive) Treads A Measure, Grinning, In Herself A Ballet, Fixed As Fate Upon Her Audience. Stumps Are Shaking, Crutch-Supported; Splinted Fingers Tap The Rhythm; And A Head All Helmed With Plasters Wags A Measured Approbation. Of Their Mattress-Life Oblivious, All The Patients, Brisk And Cheerful, Are Encouraging The Dancer, And Applauding The Musician. Dim The Gas-Lights In The Output Of So Many Ardent Smokers, Full Of Shadow Lurch The Corners, And The Doctor Peeps And Passes. There Are, Maybe, Some Suspicions Of An Alcoholic Presence . . . 'Tak' A Sup Of This, My Wumman!' . . . New Year Comes But Once A Twelvemonth.