Perhaps in some neglected spot is laid A heart, well stuffed, brown from the kitchen fire,―― Meat, that to water hermit’s chops had made, Or waked a vegetarian’s desire! Say, if it goes, can nought your wrath assuage? No hint of area-sneaks or cats that stroll? Must Missus with the Cook fly in a rage, And the Police still come in for the whole? Full many a gem of the Em’rald Isle so green, The dark ungarnished Crusher’s coat may wear; Can you expect such flowers to blush unseen, Or fill their stomachs with the chill night air? Some village LOVELACE, whom with dauntless breast. Rustic CLARISSA painfully withstood; Some mute inglorious DANDO here may rest; Some SOYER, with a genius for food. The smiles of real ladies to command, Glances to win from more than cookmaid’s eyes, Dinners and suppers in good style to stand, And area-snacks and broken meat despise, Their means forbade――nor circumscribed alone, Their loves and pockets, their beats, too, confined: Forbade to make the pot-house chair their throne, And floor their glass like truncheonless mankind. Far from the dangerous scenes of London life―― Garottes and Life-Preservers――let them stay, And past the area-railings, free from strife, Pursue the harmless tenor of their way. For me, who for the Crusher snoring laid, Do in these lines obvious excuses state―― If ever to the Hulks or Portland led Some pal should kindly ask about my fate―― Haply may some grey-headed warder say, “Oft have we seen him, in the convict rank, Brushing with measured steps the dust away From off the mill, or working at the crank. “There in the school-room where the boys they teach, The Chaplain he would queer, upon the sly; Glib texts would quote, or contrite mug would stretch, Tipping the wink to pals that sniggered by. “When, in the chapel, duller rogues would scorn, The Parson’s pains that to convert them strove; He still would sigh both afternoon and morn, And in his tearless eye his knuckles shove. “One morn I missed him on the ’customed mill, Nor at the crank, nor oakum room was he, Another came his vacant cell to fill, His game had proved the ticket――he was free. “And in our Office here the other day, Upon the prison-books I found him borne, As one who, with his ticket sent away, Would any station (house) in life adorn.” MORAL. If Life-Preserver or Garotte you’re worth, O youth, to Portland and the Hulks though known, The capital you’ll find the snuggest berth, Its wide unguarded suburbs all your own. Long though your sentence and your task severe, The pious dodge a ticket soon will send: You give the Chaplain all he asks, a tear, You’ll find the Crusher (all you wish) a friend.