Grim was the scowl of his face that day,
As he led me by the wrist:
Ever and anon he paused on the way,
And beat me with his fist.
Dread was the sneer of his evil leer,
Dread was the glance of his eye,
My heart within me shrunk for fear,
And my parchëd mouth was dry.
With massive club he beat me down,
He kicked me as I lay,
And cried, “get up you lazy clown,
‘Don’t keep me here all day!”
A rascal by me chanced to rove,
I would I could have shot him!
He asked another, “Who’s that cove?
‘And why’s the Peeler1 got him?”
His friend replied, as on they went,
“He’s rather gone in liquor,
‘He prigged the shiners2 off a gent,
‘And neatly nabbed his ticker.”3
B. B.