Of velveteen still were his breeches,
But with a host of coarse-drawn stitches.
Of highloes still a pair he wore,
But laceless each, and with a score
Of holes that let the puddles in,
And wetted Bobby, sole and skin!
No, Bob was anything but garish;
’Twas time they sent him to the parish!
They tell me he is there at last,
And that his bell was with him passed!