What Ails Me, I May Not, as Well as They

WHAT ails me, I may not, as well as they,
Rake up some threadbare tales that mould'ring lay
In chimney corners, wont by Christmas fires
To read and rock to sleep our ancient sires ?
No man his threshold better knows than I
Brute's first arrival and first victory,
Saint George's sorrel and his cross of blood,
Arthur's round board, and Caledonian wood.