THE SWASHBUCKLER.

Squat-nosed and broad, of big and pompous port;

A tavern visage, apoplexy haunts,

All pimple-puffed; the Falstaff-like resort

Of fat debauchery, whose veined cheek flaunts

A flabby purple: rusty-spurred he stands

In rakehell boots and belt, and hanger that

Claps when, with greasy gauntlets on his hands,

He swaggers past in cloak and slouch-plumed hat.

Aggression marches armies in his words;

And in his oaths great deeds ride cap-a-pie;

His looks, his gestures breathe the breath of swords;

And in his carriage camp all wars to be:

With him of battles there shall be no lack

While buxom wenches are and stoops of sack.