The porter to run up, and question his lord
If he kindly would grant a night’s shelter and board?
No priest on Sir Rupert’s head called down a benison,
No acquaintance sent presents of black-cock and venison.
While his former bad temper began to grow worse,
He would mutter and fidget—nay, stamp, foam, and curse;
But his feelings I’ll try to describe in the verse
Most used by our Alfred—not Bunn though, but Tennyson.
Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed,
Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled;