⁠Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail;
And I stepped beneath Time's finger, once again a tribal singer
⁠[And a minor poet certified by Tr—ll].

Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow,
⁠When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn;
When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses,
⁠And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne.

Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage,
⁠Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk;
Still we let our business slide—as we dropped the half-dressed hide—
⁠To show a fellow-savage how to work.