Tramp—tramp—tramp—tramp—upon the Brixton Mill!
FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH.
“Aurum potabile:”—Gold biles the pot.—FREE TRANSLATION.
FAREWELL then, my golden repeater,
We’re come to my Uncle’s old shop;
And hunger won’t be a dumb-waiter,
The Cerberus growls for a sop!
To quit thee, my comrade diurnal,
My feelings will certainly scotch;