Crooked legged, with clothes too short all—seedy garments that he wore;
Never once “good morning” bade me—not a bow or scrape he made me,
But upon my table laid me down a bill from Baize and Blore,
Took his stand upon the oilcloth just within my chamber door,
Stood and hiccupped—nothing more.
VIII.
Then this festive creature winning all my sad soul into grinning,
Such a visage idiotic I had never seen of yore;
“Well, you have been drinking brandy,” said I, “and your legs are bandy,
And you hardly look a dandy, though you come from Baize and Blore;