They flitted: he with his corn-straw bass,

She with her load of tin and brass:

As mad a match as you would see

In a twelvemonth’s ride thro’ Christendie.

He roared—they both were drunk as hell:

She danced, and danced it mighty well!

I could have eyed them longer, but

They staggered for the Quarry Cut:

That half-perch seemed to trouble them more

Than all the leagues they’d tramped before.