THE TALKING OAK.
67
xii.
And number'd bead, and shrift,
Bluff Harry broke into the spence,
And turn'd the cowls adrift:
xiii.
Fresh faces, that would thrive
When his man-minded offset rose
To chase the deer at five;
xiv.
Till that wild wind made work
In which the gloomy brewer's soul
Went by me, like a stork:
xv.
And others, passing praise,
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud
For puritanic stays:
