He still would sigh both afternoon and morn,
And in his tearless eye his knuckles shove.
“One morn I missed him on the ’customed mill,
Nor at the crank, nor oakum room was he,
Another came his vacant cell to fill,
His game had proved the ticket—he was free.
“And in our Office here the other day,
Upon the prison-books I found him borne,
As one who, with his ticket sent away,
Would any station (house) in life adorn.”