Through Irish-bog-like mud and mire,
Wartonian wind, and Woodcock fire,
Fought iron frame and shrewd head on it.
Weg, holding fast his good Scots bonnet,
Looked sharp around with prudent care,
Lest bogies take him unaware,
Or watchful foemen “wipe his eye”
With that confounded thing, a “cry,”
By this time he was cross the ford
(Where he was very nearly floored),