Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er empty bottles upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, as they let him sleep on
In the cell where the constables laid him.
No curtains had he to his lonely bed,
And a rough deal plank was his pillow;
He will wake with parched throat and an aching head,
And thirst that would drink up a billow.
Roughly, yet sadly, we laid him down,
That toper, worn, haggard, and hoary,