While his bowels would dismally grumble and cry.
Such digestible dainties his stomach rejected:—
Never yet was, for him, a worse supper selected!
So he pick’d a few stones which the place did inviron,
Which he crumbled as bread in a nice mess of iron.
“A supper of iron!—pray, Sir, was it hot?”
No, my arch little rogue—I should think it was not.
“But how did he get it, Sir?”—How!—what a question!
You’d better have ask’d how he got the digestion:
For the stuff—that’s a matter he easily settles;