We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to "Pen."
Well,—the moon shone bright
Upon "Pen" that night,
When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,
Was scaling its side
With that sort of stride
A man puts out when walking in search of a bride.
Mounting higher and higher,
He began to perspire,
Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire,