Where I sat, with my hands in my pockets,

The only one grave.

I had fancied young Titterton’s chuckles,

And old Bottleby’s hearty guffaws

As he drove at my ribs with his knuckles,

His mode of expressing applause:

While Jean Bottleby—queenly Miss Janet—

Drew her handkerchief hastily out,

In fits at my slyness—what can it

Have all been about?