And in rush'd a troop Of strange guests!--such a group As had ne'er before darkened the door of the Scroope! This looks like De Saye--yet--it is not De Saye-- And this is--no, 'tis not--Sir Reginald Braye, This has somewhat the favor of Marmaduke Grey-- But stay!--_Where on earth did he get those long nails?_ Why, they're _claws_!--then Good Gracious!--they've all of them _tails!_ That can't be De Vaux--why, his nose is a bill, Or, I would say a beak!--and he can't keep it still!-- Is that Poynings?--Oh, Gemini! look at his feet!! Why, they're absolute _hoofs_!--is it gout or his corns, That have crumpled them up so?--by Jingo, he's _horns!_ Run! run!--There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John, And the Mandevilles, _père et filz_ (father and son), And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford--_they've all got them on!_ Then their great saucer eyes-- It's the Father of lies And his Imps--run! run! run!--they're all fiends in disguise, Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions, The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connections, And He--at the top there--that grim-looking elf-- Run! run!--that's the "muckle-horned Clootie" himself! And now what a din Without and within! For the courtyard is full of them.--How they begin To mop, and to mowe, and to make faces, and grin! Cock their tails up together, Like cows in hot weather, And butt at each other, all eating and drinking, The viands and wine disappearing like winking, And then such a lot As together had got! Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine To calculate with, and count noses,--I ween The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen,-- Declared, when he'd made By the said machine's aid, Up, what's now called the "tottle" of those he surveyed, There were just--how he proved it I cannot divine-- _Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety and nine._ Exclusive of Him Who, giant in limb, And black as the crow they denominate _Jim_, With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear, Stands forth at the window--and what holds he there, Which he hugs with such care, And pokes out in the air, And grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear? Oh! grief and despair! I vow and declare It's Le Scroope's poor, dear, sweet, little, curly-wigged Heir! Whom the nurse had forgot and left there in his chair, Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear.