"HER END WAS PIECES."
THE TICKET OF LEAVE. [AS SUNG BY THE HOLDER, AMID A CONVIVIAL CIRCLE IN THE SLUMS.] PUNCH.
Ven a prig has come to grief,
He's no call for desperation;
Though I'm a conwicted thief,
Still I've opes of liberation.
The Reverend Chapling to deceive
A certain dodge and safe resource is,
Whereby you gets a Ticket of Leave,
And then resumes your wicious courses.
(SPOKEN.) I vos lagged, my beloved pals, on a suspicion of burglary, 'ad up afore the Recorder, and got seven years' penal serwitude and 'ard labor. Hand preshus 'ard labor and 'ard lines I found it at first, mind you. Vell, I says to myself, blow me! I ain't a goin' to stand this 'ere, you know: but 'taint no ass kickin' agin stone walls and iron spikes: wot I shall try and do is to gammon the parson.
"Ven a prig," etc.
Them parsons is so jolly green,
They're sure to trust in your conwersion,
Which they, in course, believes 'as been
The consequence of their exertion.
You shakes your 'ead, turns up your eyes,
And they takes that to be repentance;
Wherein you moans, and groans, and sighs,
By reason only of your sentence.
(SPOKEN.) Wen in a state of wiolent prespiration smokin' 'ot from the crank, the Chapling comes into my cell, and he says, says he, "My man," he says, "how do you feel?" "'Appy, sir," says I, with a gentle sithe: "thank you, sir: quite 'appy." "But you seem distressed, my poor fellow," says he. "In body, sir," says I; "yes. But that makes me more 'appy. I'm glad to be distressed in body. It serves me right. But in mind I'm 'appy: leastways almost 'appy." "'Ave you hany wish to express," says he: "is there any request as you would like to make." "'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION, sir," says I, "and the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER: if 'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION was but mine—and the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER—I think, sir, I should be quite 'appy." "My friend," says the parson, "your desire shall be attended to," and hout he valked: me a takin' a sight at 'im be'ind 'is back; for as soon as I thought he wos out of 'earin', sings I to myself— "Ven a prig," etc
In the chapel hof the Jug,
Then I did the meek and lowly,
Pullin' sitch a spoony mug
That I looked unkimmon pure and 'oly.
As loud as ever I could shout,
All the responses too I hutter'd,
Well knowing what I was about:
So the reverend Gent I buttered.
(Spoken.) Won day he comes to me arter service, and axes me what I thought: I could do for myself in the way of yarnin a honest liveliwood, if so be as I was to be allowed my liberty and to go back to the world. "Ah! sir," says I, "I don't think no longer about the world. 'Tis a world of sorrow and wanity, I havn't given a thought to what I should do in it" "Every one," says the Chapling "has his sphere of usefulness in society; can you think of no employment which you have the desire and ability to follow?" "Well, sir," says I "if there is a wocation which I should feel delight and pleasure in follerin 'tis that of a Scripter Reader. But I ain't worthy to be a Scripter Reader. A coal-porter of tracts and religious books, sir, I thinks that's what I should like to try and be, if the time of my just punishment was up. But there's near seven year, sir, to think about that—and p'raps 'tis better for me to be here." That's the way I used to soap the Chapling—Cos vy? "Ven a prig," etc. So he thought I kissed the rod, All the while my 'art was 'ardened; And I 'adn't been very long in quod Afore he got me as good as pardoned; And here am I with my Ticket of Leave, Obtained by shamming pious feeling, Which lets me loose again to thieve, For I means to persewere in stealing.
(Spoken.) With which resolution, my beloved pals, if you please I'll couple the 'elth of the clergy; and may they hever continue to be sitch kind friends as they now shows theirselves to us when we gets into trouble. For, "Ven a prig," etc.