A new dark Llama Paletot when next we met he wore,
The expression of his dress was not so seedy as before;
And, dining at his side, was one, in Hemming’s room upstairs,
Who deem’d his Line a good one, and who took five hundred shares.
I saw him but a moment, but methinks I see him still,
At the café in the Haymarket, where yet he owes the bill!
And once again I saw him, but this time it was not here;
In coat of questionable age he traversed Boulogne Pier!
He stept in shabby solitude, for, on one fated day
The bubble of his Line had burst, and he had run away.