No, no,—some paltry puppy—three weeks old—
And round as Norval’s shield”—thus incoherent
His fancies grew as he went on to scold;
So stormy waves are into breakers roll’d,
Work’d up at last to mere chaotic wroth—
This—that—heads—tails—thoughts jumbled uncontroll’d
As onions, turnips, meat, in boiling broth,
By turns bob up, and splutter in the froth.
HOME’S DOUGLAS.