“Part stain’d with grease, and part defil’d with beer
“His thirst with cooling porter would he quench,
“And bend his noddle o’er the Gazetteer.
“Hard by yon steps, now grinning as in scorn,
“Muttering his oaths and quibbles he would stand;
“Now hanging down his pate like one forlorn,
“As if some dread commitment was at hand.
“One morn I miss’d him in this custom’d hall,
“And at the Oak,[8] where he was wont to be,