And the crowd, dispersing slowly,
Seek the publics close adjacent,
There to quaff their pots of porter—
Porter, their belovèd liquor;
There to puff their shag-tobacco,
And, amid the fumes ascending,
They will prate of him in Dartmoor.
When the time shall come for quitting,
They’ll depart with gait unsteady,
Shouting in their native jargon,