But, as stiff as Tate and Brady, stood within my study-door,
Underneath a bust of Cobden just above my study-door,—
Stood, and scowled, and nothing more.
Then this sombre guest, beguiling my tired spirit into smiling
By the doctrinaire decorum of the countenance he wore,
“Smugly trimmed and deftly shaven, though I trust I’m not a craven,
You have startled me, Dunraven,” said I, “yapping at my door.
Tell me what your little game is, late at night at this my door?”
Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!”
Much I chuckled (though urbanely) him to hear talk so insanely,