At twelve o'clock the turnkey come;
The locks and bolts sound like a drum.
If you be ever so full of game,
The traaedin' mill it will you tame.
At one you mount the mill again,
That is labour all in vain
If that be ever so wrong or right,
You must traaede till six at night.
Thursdays we have a jubal fraae
Wi' bread and cheese for all the day.
I'll tell you raaelly, without consate,
For a hungry pig 'tis a charmin' bait.
At six you're locked into your cell,
There until the mornin' dwell;
There's a bed o' straw all to lay on,
There's Hobson's choice, there's that or none."
That is a bleak picture; but the old man winds up by bidding all his
mates "go it again, my merry boys, and never mind if they you taaeke." He
told me that on several occasions he was out ferreting, or with his
lurcher, on the next night after coming out of prison. Can you keep such
a fellow out of a well-stocked park? He likes the money that he gets for
game, but what he likes far better is the wild pleasure of seeing the
deadly dogs wind on the trail of the doomed quarry; he likes the danger,
the strategy, the gambling chances.
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