twenty-five different detachments representing four regiments.
He mopes or mumbles, sleeps or shouts for glee,
And shakes his sides - a cavern-hutted King!
But when the ouzel in the gaps at eve
Doth pipe her dreary ditty to the surge
All tumbling in the soft green level light,
He sits as quiet as a thick-mossed rock,
And dreameth in his cold old savage way
Of gliding barges on the wine-dark waves,