Beneath a curly world of wig;
And pages slim, a countless race,
So dazzlingly disguised in lace,
So like a line of dukes they stood,
That had their thousand mothers old
Beheld them in those suits of gold,
They had not known their blood.
Now, now the standard fondlier floats,
The cannons speak with hoarser throats,
And cheek of trumpeter denotes