I saw him quite down-hearted, with his paletot all but rags,
As he underwent the fate of all Provisionary Stags.
Albert Smith.
He Wore Grey Worsted Stockings.
He wore grey worsted stockings the term when first we met,
His trousers had no straps, his highlows had no jet;
His look it had the greenness, his voice the sleepy tone,
The tokens of a raw young man who’d lately left his home.
I saw him but a moment, yet methinks I see him now,