THE EX-VETERAN OF WATERLOO.
And next, an old man full of years shuffles by,
His nose to the dust, and his back to the sky;
The few snowy hairs that still cling to his head
Far down o’er his collar untidily spread.
And who now would think that the feeble, dry hand
That hardly can free the rude cane from the sand,
Once swung a long saber, that cut its way through
The cuirassiers’ helmets at famed Waterloo?
Old Time warps the figure firm-knitted and square,