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 | The poems posthumous and collected of Thomas Lovell Beddoes |  |
IX. A Ruffian.
There's a fellowWith twisting root-like hair up to his eyes,
And they are streaked with red and starting out
Under their bristling brows; his crooked tusks
Part, like a hungry wolf's, his cursing mouth;
His head is frontless, and a swinish mane
Grows o'er his shoulders:—brown and warty hands,
Like roots, with pointed nails.—He is the man.
| The poems posthumous and collected of Thomas Lovell Beddoes | |