The gallant Bruin march’d next him,
With visage formidably grim, 250
And rugged as a Saracen,
Or Turk of Mahomet’s own kin;
Clad in a mantle della guerre
Of rough impenetrable fur;
And in his nose, like Indian King, 255
He wore, for ornament, a ring;
About his neck a threefold gorget. 
As rough as trebled leathern target;
Armed, as heralds cant, and langued;
Or, as the vulgar say, sharp-fanged. 260
For as the teeth in beasts of prey
Are swords, with which they fight in fray;
So swords, in men of war, are teeth,
Which they do eat their vittle with. 
He was by birth, some authors write, 265
A Russian; some, a Muscovite;
And ’mong the Cossacks had been bred; <>
Of whom we in diurnals read,
That serve to fill up pages here,
As with their bodies ditches there. 270
SCRIMANSKY was his cousin-german,
With whom he serv’d, and fed on vermin;
And when these fail’d, he’d suck his claws,
And quarter himself upon his paws. 
And tho’ his countrymen, the Huns,<> 275
Did stew their meat between their bums
And th’ horses backs o’er which they straddle,
And ev’ry man eat up his saddle;
He was not half so nice as they,
But eat it raw when ’t came in’s way. 280
He had trac’d countries far and near,
More than le Blanc, the traveller;
Who writes, he spous’d in India,
Of noble house, a lady gay,
And got on her a race of worthies, 285
As stout as any upon earth is. 
Full many a fight for him between
Talgol and ORSIN oft had been
Each striving to deserve the crown
Of a sav’d citizen; the one 290
To guard his bear; the other fought
To aid his dog; both made more stout
By sev’ral spurs of neighbourhood,
Church-fellow-membership, and blood
But Talgol, mortal foe to cows, 295
Never got aught of him but blows;
Blows, hard and heavy, such as he
Had lent, repaid with usury.

Yet Talgol was of courage stout,
And vanquish’d oft’ner than he fought:  300
Inur’d to labour, sweat and toil,
And like a champion shone with oil. 
Right many a widow his keen blade,. 
And many fatherless had made. 
He many a boar and huge dun-cow 305
Did, like another Guy, o’erthrow;
But Guy with him in fight compar’d,
Had like the boar or dun-cow far’d
With greater troops of sheep h’ had fought
Than Ajax or bold Don Quixote:  310
And many a serpent of fell kind,
With wings before and stings behind,
Subdu’d:  as poets say, long agone