They quodded him, his plans to baulk,
And—tried to bag his breeches!
But brave O'Brien's blood did burn
(Say, who his pluck impeaches?)
He up and swore in accents stern,
"I won't—wear convict breeches!"
Those gaolers deep about him hung,
They stuck to him like leeches.
But he, the eloquent of tongue,
Stuck to—O'Brien's breeches!