But he’d pawn all the togs that he had,
Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer[276],
And moisten his gob ’fore he died.
“’Pon my conscience, dear Larry,” says I,
“I’m sorry to see you in trouble,
And your life’s cheerful noggin run dry,
And yourself going off like its bubble!”
“Hould your tongue in that matter,” says he;
“For the neckcloth I don’t care a button,
And by this time to-morrow you’ll see