But the sad conductor took my arm,
And steadfast gazed on me—
Then pointing up to the corner seat,
"Look! that's his regular game,
I'm sorry to have it to say of a ghost,
But he hasn't a tint of shame!"
You'll think the tram conductor was drunk,
His breath was sweet as mine,
Like the orris root, or a tint of mint,
Or scent of a similar line.