And he brush'd his hair—of a brownish gray.
His robe was scarlet, and people say,
That its edges were thickly ermined.
But let us leave him for a while,
And hurry to Guildhall,
Where stout police (in single file),
In tight cravat and shiny tile,
Parade before the gloomy pile—
Right stalwart men and tall.
See, in their garb of modest green,