But rum 'ot and religion don't mix none too well, as tomater-nosed Tommy 'as reason to know.
Still 'e 'as got the gift o' the gab, and no error, 'is yarns when 'e's on, make yer creepy and low.
Tommy is one o' that mildewy sort as are gen'rally gloomy and down on their luck.
'E will tip you 'is graveyardy tales of old times, till you stand 'im a nobbler, or give 'im the chuck.
Remembers the old body-snatchers, Tom does, and the Burke and Hare yarns make you cold as a dab;
But what 'e reeled out o'er 'is rum-'ot to-night was a gospel-true tale of a old Haunted Cab.
"Gospel-true, on my davy," is Tommy's pet clincher. "Ah, Jack," 'e grumped out, as 'e stoppered 'is bowl
With a forefinger brown as a rusty old spike; "you young chirpers ain't go neither fancy nor soul.
Hagnostical lot, you smart 'Ansoms, as think you are Huxleys on wheels, I 'ave not the least doubt,
But why ain't a cab just as like as a castle to 'ave its own ghost? Tell me that, 'Ginger Grout'!"