No More Shall I, Since I Am Driven Hence, Devote To Thee My Grains Of Frankincense; No More Shall I From Mantle-Trees Hang Down, To Honour Thee, My Little Parsley Crown; No More Shall I (I Fear Me) To Thee Bring My Chives Of Garlic For An Offering; No More Shall I From Henceforth Hear A Choir Of Merry Crickets By My Country Fire. Go Where I Will, Thou Lucky Lar Stay Here, Warm By A Glitt'Ring Chimney All The Year.