And murd'rers serve for martyred saints.
With laws so changed, a realm's disgrace
Springs from a pot-boy 'out of place;'
When all but starts the maudlin tear,
For sufferings of a Courvoisier;
And Pity grasps the hand imbrued
In a confiding master's blood!
When the most hardened knave has hope
Of all things needful—but a rope!
And nought excites the mortal pang,