The shaggy beaver throws,
And with the ample feather's aid
O'er-canopies the nose;
Where'er with smooth and silken pile,
Ling'ring in solemn pause awhile,
The crimson velvet glows;
From some high bench's giddy brink,
Clinton with me begins to think
(As bolt upright we sit)
That dress, like dogs, should have its day,