He spoke, then eyed them with dismay;
For o'er the valley spread
The clamoring crowd, and stern and proud
A king rode at their head.
In mothy ermine he was drest;
As sad a horse he rode,
With jaunty air, quite débonnaire,
As ever man bestrode.
The Beggars stumped and limped behind,
With wails and whines and moans—