Almost as yellow as his cheek—
A widower, sixty-five, and surly,
And stiffer than a poplar-tree—
Drinks rum and water, gets up early
To dip his carcass in the sea—
He's always in a monstrous hurry,
And always talking of Bengal;
They say his cook makes noble curry—
I think, Louisa, we should call.
And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker,