You! who are you, anyhow, goin’ round in that sneakin’ way?
Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say?
Look at it; don’t it look pooty?    Oh, grin, and be d—d to you, do!
But if I had you this side o’ that gratin,’ I’d just make it lively for you.

How did I get in here?    Well what ’ud you give to know?
’Twasn’t by sneakin’ round where I hadn’t no call to go;
’Twasn’t by hangin’ round a-spyin’ unfortnet men.
Grin! but I’ll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen.

Why don’t you say suthin, blast you?    Speak your mind if you dare.
Ain’t I a bad lot, sonny?    Say it, and call it square.
Hain’t got no tongue, hey, hev ye?    Oh, guard! here’s a little swell
A cussin’ and swearin’ and yellin’, and bribin’ me not to tell.

There! I thought that ’ud fetch ye!    And you want to know my name?
“Seventy-nine” they call me, but that is their little game;
For I’m werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can understand,
And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land.

For ’twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like me;
And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they couldn’t agree;
And I sed to the judge, sez I,—Oh, grin! it’s all right, my son!
But you’re a werry lively young pup, and you ain’t to be played upon!

Wot’s that you got?—tobacco?    I’m cussed but I thought ’twas a tract.
Thank ye!    A chap t’other day—now, lookee, this is a fact—
Slings me a tract on the evils o’ keepin’ bad company,
As if all the saints was howlin’ to stay here along o’ we.

No, I hain’t no complaints.    Stop, yes; do you see that chap,—
Him standin’ over there, a-hidin’ his eyes in his cap?
Well, that man’s stumick is weak, and he can’t stand the pris’n fare;
For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it ain’t nowhere.

Perhaps it’s his bringin’ up; but he’s sickenin’ day by day,
And he doesn’t take no food, and I’m seein’ him waste away.
And it isn’t the thing to see; for, whatever he’s been and done,
Starvation isn’t the plan as he’s to be saved upon.

For he cannot rough it like me; and he hasn’t the stamps, I guess,
To buy him his extry grub outside o’ the pris’n mess.
And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I’ve been sorter free,
Would—thank you!    But, say! look here!    Oh, blast it! don’t give it to me!

Don’t you give it to me; now, don’t ye, don’t ye, don’t!
You think it’s a put-up job; so I’ll thank ye, sir, if you won’t.
But hand him the stamps yourself: why, he isn’t even my pal;
And, if it’s a comfort to you, why, I don’t intend that he shall.