Foster the tinker traversed Maine
From Elkinstown to Kittery Point,
With a rattling pack and a rattling brain,
And a general air of “out of joint.”
A gaunt, old chap with a shambling gait,
A battered hat and rusty clothes,
With grimy digits in sorry state,
And a smooch on the end of his big red nose.
That was the way that Foster went—
Mixture of shrewdness and folly blent,