I
An hour wherein the ghosts are wont to take their constitutional,
'Twas twenty-four o'clock; an hour that's oftimes deleterious
To many a liver wetted swell, pugnacious or emotional.
The beggared corporation lights, did flick in the nor'wester gale,
That blistering nose, and finger-tips, were loaded well with sleet,
When Binks harrangued a constable, "Good night, it's cold, you're looking pale,"
From where he backed a lamp-post, at the end of Brunswick Street.
"Ah! Sergeant," said Fitz-Binks, "It's late, or I could treat you decently,
And 'twouldn't be too dusty, if we had a flying drink;