And at these scamps, on cheating thriven,
Fierce flash’d my eyes’ artillery.
But fiercer yet did those eyes glow,
When reft of means “express” to go,
From Dover, in the third-class low,
Was I, Sir, rolling crawlingly.
’Twas morn, but deuce a bit of sun
Pierced through the clouds; they were as “dun”
As I,—excuse the horrid pun—
In that infernal hostelry.