II.

At a window, which on high Frowns o’er the market place below, With trousers[57] on, and haggard eye, A member stood immersed in woe, His tatter’d gown, and greasy hair, Stream’d like a dishclout to the onion’d air. And with a voice that well might beat the cryer, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:―― “Hark! how each butcher’s stall, and mightier shops Sighs to the market’s clattering row beneath; For thee the women squall, the cleavers chop, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe, Vocal no more since Monday’s fatal night, To Thirlwall’s[58] keen remark, or Sheridan’s[58] wild flight.