And hence this halo lives about

The waiter's hands, that reach

To each his perfect pint of stout,
His proper chop to each.

He looks not like the common breed
That with the napkin dally;

I think he came, like Ganymede,
From some delightful valley.

The Cock was of a larger egg
Than modern poultry drop,
Stept forward on a firmer leg,

And crammed a plumper crop ;

Upon an ampler dunghill trod,
Crowed lustier, late and early,
Sipt wine from silver, praising God,
And raked in golden barley.

A private life was all his joy,
Till in a court he saw

A something-pottle-bodied boy,

That knuckled at the taw:

He stooped and clutched him, fair and good, Flew over roof and casement:

His brothers of the weather stood

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire,

And followed with acclaims,

A sign to many a staring shire,
Came crowing over Thames.

Right down by smoky Paul's they bore,
Till, where the street grows straiter,

One fixed forever at the door,

And one became head-waiter.

But whither would my fancy go?
How out of place she makes
The violet of a legend blow
Among the chops and steaks!

'Tis but a steward of the can,

One shade more plump than common;

As just and mere a serving-man

I ranged too high what draws me down.

Into the common day?

Is it the weight of that half-crown,
Which I shall have to pay?

For, something duller than at first,
Nor wholly comfortable,
I sit, (my empty glass reversed,)

And hence this halo lives about

The waiter's hands, that reach

To each his perfect pint of stout,
His proper chop to each.

He looks not like the common breed
That with the napkin dally;

I think he came, like Ganymede,
From some delightful valley.

The Cock was of a larger egg
Than modern poultry drop,
Stept forward on a firmer leg,

And crammed a plumper crop ;

Upon an ampler dunghill trod,
Crowed lustier, late and early,
Sipt wine from silver, praising God,
And raked in golden barley.

A private life was all his joy,
Till in a court he saw

A something-pottle-bodied boy,

That knuckled at the taw:

He stooped and clutched him, fair and good, Flew over roof and casement:

His brothers of the weather stood

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire,

And followed with acclaims,

A sign to many a staring shire,

Came crowing over Thames.

Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, Till, where the street grows straiter,

One fixed forever at the door,

And one became head-waiter.

*

But whither would my fancy go?
How out of place she makes
The violet of a legend blow
Among the chops and steaks!

'Tis but a steward of the can,

One shade more plump than common; As just and mere a serving-man

As any, born of woman.

I ranged too high: what draws me down. Into the common day?

Is it the weight of that half-crown,

Which I shall have to pay?

For, something duller than at first,
Nor wholly comfortable,
I sit, (my empty glass reversed,)

And hence this halo lives about

The waiter's hands, that reach
To each his perfect pint of stout,
His proper chop to each.

He looks not like the common breed
That with the napkin dally;

I think he came, like Ganymede,
From some delightful valley.

The Cock was of a larger egg
Than modern poultry drop,
Stept forward on a firmer leg,

And crammed a plumper crop ;

Upon an ampler dunghill trod,
Crowed lustier, late and early,
Sipt wine from silver, praising God,
And raked in golden barley.

A private life was all his joy,

Till in a court he saw

A something-pottle-bodied boy,

That knuckled at the taw:

He stooped and clutched him, fair and good, Flew over roof and casement:

His brothers of the weather stood