EXEXOLOR.
The shades of night had fallen (at last!)
When from the Eagle Tavern pass'd
A youth, who bore, in manual vice,
A pot of something monstrous nice—
XX—oh lor!
His brow was bad—his young eye scann'd
The frothing flagon in his hand,
And like a gurgling streamlet sprung
The accents to that thirsty tongue,