Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion,
Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun,
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion,
And blending every colour into one,
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffl
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle)
Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen—
It is as well to think so, now and then;
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