With a few other babillards more than I saw,
[12] ]That musty old crusty old Tabby the Owl,
Like a Judge in his wig, or a Monk in his cowl,
Sat muzzing behind, half apart from the rest,
By the glitter, and bustle, and babble distrest;
Sorely wishing ’twere time to slink home to her nest.
Her poll in her shoulders, her hooting-pipe mute,
With a bird in her beak, and a mouse in each foot,
Half listening, half dozing—now scolding, now tickled,
While in vinegar sauce reputations were pickled,