’Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.
We tuck’d him in, and had hardly done
When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
Of a watchman “One o’clock!” bawling.
Slowly and sadly we all walked down
From his room in the uppermost story;
A rushlight we placed on the cold hearthstone,
And we left him alone in his glory.