The Ice in the Punch
The wail of the ’cello is soft, sweet, and low;
There are strains of romance in the thrumming banjo.
The violin’s note—feel it float in your ear;
And the harp makes one fancy that angels are near.
The voice of a young girl can reach to the heart;
The song of the baritone—well, it is art.
The flute and the lute in gavotte—the guitar
In soft serenade—how entrancing they are!
But to all the mad millions
Who dance at cotillons
There’s naught like the clink and the clank and the crunch
Of the ice in the punch.
So here’s to the recipe, ancient in Spain,
And here’s to the basket of cobwebbed champagne.
Again to the genius who grows the sharp spice,
But ten times to King Winter who furnishes ice;
For to all the mad millions
Who dance at cotillons
There’s naught like the clink and the clank and the crunch
Of the ice in the punch.