You must mount on the traädin’ mill.
There is a turnkey that you’ll find,
He is a raskill most unkind.
To rob poor prisoners he is that man,
To chaäte poor prisoners where he can,
At eleven o’clock we march upstairs
To hear the parson read the prayers.
Then we are locked into a pen—
It’s almost like a lion’s den.
There’s iron bars big round as your thigh