Lost was the key that oped the latch;
To light his pipe he had no match,
Within the Bow Street station's range.
He only said, "It's very dreary;"
"Bail will not come," he said;
He said, "I have been very beery,
I would I were a-bed!"
The rain fell like a sluice that even;
His Clarence boots could not be dried,
But had been soaked since half-past seven—