Who left me this! I mind me of the past—
I stalked along, and felt tall as a mast,
In my new beaver; with this bashed old pot,
Under the shining moon, like seedy sot,
I must go creeping forth, or brave the blast
Bareheaded. Should I chance to meet the beak,
I swear by faith, I'll send him on their trail;
The lot we'll follow the old world about,
Among their wilder comrades, sworn to seek
And find the thief; their doom be, if we fail—