XXV.
On came these wights, and many more beside,
Thick as the grains of sand upon the shore,
Thick as a swarm of flies in summer tide,
That on a dunghill hive and hover o’er;
Most had their hides all scall’d, their trousers tore;
Many sans breeches, shameless trudg’d along,
And many a noble knave and titled w——e,
With Irish bog-trotters would crowd and throng,
Carolling catches base, and filthy French chanson.