< Page:The Bab Ballads.djvu
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AT A PANTOMIME.

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The cruel old scoundrel brightens up
At the death of the Olden Year,
And he waves a gorgeous golden cup
And bids the world good cheer.

The little ones hail the festive King,
No thought can make them sad,
Their laughter comes with a sounding ring,
They clap and crow like mad!

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