Iii

But soon in his eye nothing green would remain, He knows what's o'clock when he comes out again. And the next time he's quodded so downy and snug, He may thank us for making him fly to the jug. But here comes a cuffin--who cuts short my tale, It's agin rules is screevin' to pals out o' gaol.

[The following postscript seems to have been added when the Warder had passed.]