Now strutted in,—but, oh! (excuse the rhyme,)
Odds philibegs and breeches!
How he did foam and rage,
And writhe his face,
And call the potboy hog, and dog, and log,
On not perceiving his expected grog
In its accustomed place.
The potboy, being summoned, vowed
That he had duly brought it,
And, if to speak his mind he was allowed,