Like Greenwich pensioners that take too much,
And then do penance in a yellow coat.
Pompey’s, a deep and permanent jet dye,
A stain of nature’s staining—one of those,
We call fast colours—merely, I suppose,
Because such colours never go or fly.
Pray mark this difference of dark and sallow,
Pompey’s black husk, and the old Colonel’s yellow.
The Colonel, once a penniless beginner,
From a long Indian rubber rose a winner,