Classic Poem

Reluctant urchins leave their play
Their clamorous pedagogue to face,
And rattling dice-boxes betray
The fevered gambler's lurking place,
Haled from his lair in sorry case,
For now the feast its course has run,
Abject he seeks the aedile's grace,
The Saturnalia are done.

Yes, done, but I have had from you
No little gift my heart to cheer,
You never sent me much, 'tis true;
But nothing came this barren year;
Ah well, your feast will soon be here,
March brings my opportunity,
Then I'll return to you, my dear,
The compliment you've paid to me.