I then met large numbers, whose drink was not sherbet,
Who scarce could look up when their eyes the gas-glare met;
So when I had learned from commercial adviser
That mere galt for sand was the great fertilizer,
I bade Mr. Eaglet, although ’twas ideal,
Get some from the clay-pit, and so get’m real;
Then, just as my footstep was leaving the portal,
I met an elm targe on a great Highland mortal,
With the maid he had woo’d by the loch’s flowery margelet,
And row’d in his boat, which for rhyme’s sake call bargelet,