Come and listen, lords and ladies,
To a woeful lay of mine;
He whose tailor's bill unpaid is,
Let him now his ear incline!
Let him hearken to my story,
How the noblest of the land
Pined in piteous purgatory,
'Neath a sponging Bailiffs hand.
I. O. Uwins! I. O. Uwins!
Baron's son although thou be,
Thou must pay for thy misdoings
In the country of the free!
None of all thy sire's retainers
To thy rescue now may come;
And there lie some score detainers
With Abednego, the bum.
Little recked he of his prison
Whilst the sun was in the sky:
Only when the moon was risen
Did you hear the captive's cry.
For till then, cigars and claret
Lulled him in oblivion sweet;
And he much, preferred a garret,
For his drinking, to the street.
But the moonlight, pale and broken,
Pained at soul the Baron's son;
For he knew, by that soft token,
That the larking had begun;—
That the stout and valiant Marquis
Then was leading forth his swells,
Milling some policeman's carcass,
Or purloining private bells.
So he sat in grief and sorrow,
Rather drunk than otherwise,
Till the golden gush of morrow
Dawned once more upon his eyes:
Till the sponging Bailiff's daughter,
Lightly tapping at the door,
Brought his draught of soda-water,
Brandy-bottomed as before.