The ha’gbad for pardod fell dowd od his dee;
Tob gave hib a kick id the guts for his fee—
Here broke in another shout that lasted some moments. The convicts beat upon the table with their pannikins; several flaming matches were passed along and pipes sucked hard. The atmosphere rose through that open skylight hot as a blast from a furnace and dark with tobacco clouds. The prize-fighter, in a thicker and deeper voice, proceeded:
Tob said: ‘I bust speak to the people a little;
But I’ll see you all cussed here before I will whittle.
Take courage, dear cobrades, a’d be dot afraid,
Dor slip this occasiod to follow your trade;
By codscience is clear a’d by spirits are carb,
A’d thus I go off without prayer-book or psarb.’
Thed follow the practice of clever Tom Pitch,