He was thief by profession—a cadger—a sot—
Sticking close to his calling; and so, as we say,
An habitual rogue;—had he chosen his lot,
It may be he had pitch’d on an honester way.
As it was, he was light of his fingers—adept
At shop-lifting and burglary—nimble and cute;
Never fear’d a policeman (unless when he slept),
And was held by his pals in the highest repute.
[Acte ye fovrthe.]
Act the fourth is the hulks, where our hero appears
In the proper stage garments of yellow and red;
With a chain to his leg this last dozen of years,
And a warder to see that he works for his bread.
[Morall Reflecciouns.]
Once again—’tis his lot; you won’t hear him complain;
He was born to it, kick’d to it—Fortune is blind;
And if some have the pleasure, some must have the pain;
So it’s each for himself—and the devil behind.
[ Acte ye last and Ingenious rhyme.]
The last act of our drama—well, what shall it be?
The august British Public, defraying the cost?—
Or . . . P-a-r-l-i-a-m-e-n-t?
Or the angels, lamenting the soul that is lost?
BARK.
BOW-WOW!