“For by my troth,” the jailer cried, “ye are a devilish mess,
But ye dare not steep your guilty soul in the filth of the saffron press.”
Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in the penitentiary there,
And a spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair—
The spirit gripped him by the hair and sun by sun they fell
Till they came to the belt of wicked stars that rim the mouth of hell.
The devil sat behind the bars where the desperate legions drew,
And spied the hasting Tomlinson and gladly let him through:
“Sit down, sit down, upon the slag and yammer loud and high,
And tell me what you did, my man, or ever ye came to die.”