May steal the title—filch the stuff—
His tops’ls still is all we see:
The fac’ is, we ain’t good enough.
But there! You hearken unto me:—
Let him that stole now steal no more:
That signal’s hoist in Holy Writ.
Why, if you’ve wared your little store
And so don’t need no more of it,
You quit the trade—but not till then.
Or, not until the Picaroon