And as the stairs he darted down,
Called out, “My wager, Browne, I’ve won,—
’Twas that here I’d sup; and you’re fairly done
Of ham, chicken, and aquafortis!
“My boasted acquaintance with Lord De Vere,
The tale of the street so dark and drear,
Was all improvisatoré!
You would pardon a lord, though a church he should rob,
Yet hang what T. P. Cooke would call ‘a poor swab,’
And you’re nothing at best but a tuft-hunting snob,