XXV.

On came these wights, and many more beside, Thick as the grains of sand upon the shore, Thick as a swarm of flies in summer tide, That on a dunghill hive and hover o’er; Most had their hides all scall’d, their trousers tore; Many sans breeches, shameless trudg’d along, And many a noble knave and titled w——e, With Irish bog-trotters would crowd and throng, Carolling catches base, and filthy French chanson.