Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a
London Jack Tar,—a Cheapside Buccaneer!'—
But hold, my Muse!—for this terrific stanza
Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.
NOT A SOUS HAD HE GOT.
(CHARLES WOLFE)
Not a sous had he got,—not a guinea or note,
And he look'd confoundedly flurried,
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurried.