Buttony

1869, W. S. Gilbert, “Bob Polter” in Bab Ballads, p. 179, “And will my whiskers curl so tight? My cheeks grow smug and muttony? My face become so red and white? My coat so blue and buttony?

That carriage came round to Gillespie Street every day; that buttony boy sprang up and down from the box with Emmy’s and Jos’s visiting-cards […]

[…] the inconsistent woman fell upon his buttony breast weeping copiously.

That night I lay on a buttony mildewed company mattress between my favorite sheets.

The Stalactical, is generally of a brassy colour; and so is the blistered buttony Ore, which is protuberant in a semi-circular form […]

Tietjens paused and aimed with his hazel stick an immense blow at a tall spike of yellow mullein with its undecided, furry, glaucous leaves and its undecided, buttony, unripe lemon-coloured flowers.

[…] something a little doggish peeped out of the black buttony eyes, a hint of the seraglio.

[…] the street had been widened at the expense of a row of sycamores whose blotched bark and buttony seed pods had seemed oddly toylike to him, as if God were an invisible playmate.