I once beheld a very aged man Eating hog's-pudding at his cottage-door; His gallygaskins were of corderoy— And waistcoat he had none. His tatter'd coat A lonely button fasten'd o'er his breast, Seam'd was his face with scars, and on his head, Close shorn by time, he wore a woollen cap, A small red night-cap of a reverend age. Grey were his little eyes; and his sharp teeth Tho' dark of hue, straggling in array, Were nimble in their motion. As I pass'd His long hog-puddings vanished one by one, A dog was near him, on whose shaggy hide He wip'd his greasy fingers; and methought A wond'rous mortal was this ancient man. I ask'd him of his history, and he Did, with a stern and alter'd countenance, Look steadily upon me, and reply— "What's that to you."
