A Ruffian

There’s a fellow
With 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.

[Kelsall, 1851]