Sir Barbour quickly cried,
"As you may see in my fair state,
Where swings the well-greased golden gate
Above the foamy tide."
Sir Slosson quoth, "In very sooth"—
"Nay, say not so, impetuous youth,"
Sir Barbour made his boast:
"This northern breeze will not compare
With that delicious perfumed air
Which broods upon our coast."