That looks more like a pig than like a cow,
He’d drink his beer—it would’nt run to wine—
And smoke his pipe, all reckless—anyhow.
“Or down the street, to put his watch in pawn,
Feeling for vanish’d coppers, he would rove,
His old hat on, his bristly chin unshorn.
He liked his beer, but warn’t a drunken cove.
“One night I miss’d him at the accustom’d pub;
Unoccupied remain’d his favourite seat.
Another came. Where was he?—sore the rub;