It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan,
Or the tramp of a horse,—or the tread of a man,—
Or the hum of a crowd,—or the shouting of boys,—
It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise!
Not unlike a Cart's,—but that can't be; for when
Could "all the King's horses and all the King's men,"
With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up "Pen?"
Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk,
Now experienced what schoolboys denominate "funk."
In vain he look'd back