Thou misbegotten sprite! was it for this! we fought and flew,
On many a bloody battle field, right on to Peterloo?
Thou gall embittered martinet! What boots it if thou crack
Thy butler's neck? Unto that lock, he'll still be harking back,
And grow envigorated, by thy ghastly midnight work,
Like shooting of the chutes, or breezing down the switchback jerk!
"Psha! that unto thee!" and I snapped my finger at him "bosh!
Go, give thy vengeful spirit to contrition, for the wash,
And with the soap of keen remorse, erase the stain of blood,
From out thy soul, and straight atone, with deeds of useful good,