Or if the song think it be sung,
They know not who would boot-jacks fling,—
How many bricks at him I’ve flung!
When comes the night, to me he’s near,
Rainy or shiny, all the same,
He on the roof will still appear
And caterwaul his tom-cat flame.
They reckon ill who bolt him out,
For like a bird with mighty wings
He’ll perch upon the water-spout,