Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 2 of 2.djvu/200

 And hence this halo lives about The waiter's hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout, His proper chop to each. He looks not like the common breed That with the napkin dally; I think he came, like Ganymede, From some delightful valley.

The Cock was of a larger egg Than modern poultry drop, Stept forward on a firmer leg, And cramm'd a plumper crop; Upon an ampler dunghill trod, Crow'd lustier late and early, Sipt wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley.

A private life was all his joy, Till in a court he saw A something-pottle-bodied boy, That knuckled at the taw: