(TENNYSON)
So in the village inn the poet dwelt.
His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch,
His cousin's work, her empty labour, left.
But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung
And lingered all about the broidered flowers.
Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch
'Smoke plug, mon,' whom he looked at doubtfully.
Then came the grocer, saying, 'Hae some twist
At tippence,' whom he answered with a qualm.