Nor that one that is kissing the wench;
But that grey-haired old chap, whose right sleeve, sir,
Is empty, and pinned to his breast;
And I’ll bet you he says that he’s seen better days.
I can see it. That fine manly chest
I’ll warrant has heaved ’neath the scarlet,
Those grey eyes, so earnest and grave,
That look full of scorn, ne’er in plebeian born;
He’s a soldier—or has been—and brave.
I wonder if, speaking politely,