There is no house, by road or lane,
He did not tap at the window-pane,
And make more dark the dismal night,
And set the faces within with white.
Rob, the Pauper, is wild of eye,
Wild of speech, and wild of thinking;
Over his forehead broad and high,
Each with each wild locks are linking.
Yet, there is something in his bearing
Not quite what a pauper should be wearing: