The Waster Singing At Midnight. After Longfellow.

Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon          For his personal diversion,          Sang the chorus U-pi-dee,          Sang about the Barley Bree.          In that hour when all is quiet          Sang he songs of noise and riot,          In a voice so loud and queer          That I wakened up to hear.          Songs that distantly resembled          Those one hears from men assembled          In the old Cross Keys Hotel,          Only sung not half so well.          For the time of this ecstatic          Amateur was most erratic,          And he only hit the key          Once in every melody.          If "he wot prigs wot isn't his'n          Ven he's cotched is sent to prison,"          He who murders sleep might well          Adorn a solitary cell.          But, if no obliging peeler          Will arrest this midnight squealer,          My own peculiar arm of might          Must undertake the job to-night.