And runs his head against each post he meets:
In every house they’ve now put out the light,
Save where a rushlight burns with feeble shine,
Gin palaces have shut up for the night,
And I’m watched closely by B, 59.
Here, as I stand, pond’ring on this and that,
A cabman pulls his horse up with a “Wo!”
And looks me in the face, to touch his hat,
While hoarsely asking “Vere I’d wish to go?”
To-night invited to a small carouse,