While the armour-man, like a turtle starv'd.
Shall rattle his bones in his iron shell,
And no more shall feast on baron of beef,
But stand content with the cook-shop smell!"
VII.
Thus having said his terrible say,
The horrible spectre stalk'd away,
And left me in the blues;
And as across the Hall he pass'd,
E'en Gog and Magog stood aghast,