Of nasal triumph and the drumming foot.
The mother thus bereav'd, such comfort gets
As in the cudgel lies, and joins too soon
Her infant sped. Again the nasal song
Shrills, and the blood-stained tabernacle shakes
With heels triumphant tapping. All who come—
Many there are who come—learn soon or late
The flavour of the cudgel. At the end
All human powers defied, the hangman trick'd
By childlike wile, and hois'd with his own halter,