Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 2 of 2.djvu/79

 Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, And number'd bead, and shrift, Bluff Harry broke into the spence, And turn'd the cowls adrift:

And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces, that would thrive When his man-minded offset rose To chase the deer at five;

And all that from the town would stroll, Till that wild wind made work In which the gloomy brewer's soul Went by me, like a stork:

The slight she-slips of loyal blood, And others, passing praise, Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud For puritanic stays: