'Twill soon be rash a crib to crack.
Bill Sikes will sigh for happier times,
When "cats" were not the meed of crimes.
The burglar's back! Lord Esher pales
When thinking of its crimson wales.
His feelings will not stand the strain,
Of dwelling on the ruffian's pain.
The brute may "bash," the scoundrel shoot,
Hack with his knife, "purr" with his boot;
But though he "bash," or "purr," or hack,