He hailed the great sea serpent, the comprehensive whale, The flying fish, to answer, the burden of his wail, Of what the deuce had happened, that life was all so blue! "O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"
He is not dead, it's certain, I'll merely mention here, He may be in mid ocean, or yet he may be near, The north wall boat may hail him, it's prophesied that yet, Hell be thrown up at Sutton, in the sky blue bassinet.
Be watching all the papers; for soon or late some day, In leaded type, you'll see it, and with a big display Of capitals above it, of claimant, who will know, Of what to do, and do it, and one who'll have to go!
Now most of you will question, the record I recite, To clear your doubts upon it, I think it's only right, To tell you, I was searching for cockles at Blackrock, When lo! my heart was fluttered with interesting shock!
I saw a feeding bottle, that lay upon the strand, I stooped anon and gripped it, with sympathetic hand, I thought it might be jetsam, of baby that was drowned, But looking thro' the bottle, a manuscript I found.
And there in broken Irish, it states the fact, that he Had sealed it in his bottle, and still he's on the sea, With anxious intimation, that yet he seeks the clew, Of who he is? and where he is? and what he is to do?
ON London streets by a gin shop door, In the blaze of a noontide sun, With horrible zest of a thirst for gore, Was a desperate murder done, On the sainted flags of a Christian town, I saw this outrage planned, And three little boys, in crime, sere brown Were there with a helping hand.
'Twas a group of seven--I counted them all, A group of seven strong men, And summing them up, with the criminals small, Their total I think was ten, With umbrellas, and sticks, and stones, They hunted a sad wretch down, Mid random of kicks, and ogerous groans, A shame unto London town!
But while was fought the unequal fight, That murder of ten to one, There came an ominous venger of right, They call him a copper for fun, And I said he'll be pulling the lot of them; then The villians ha! ha! shall see There are dungeons dark for the murderous ten, In the walls of the Old Bailee!
But no! He paused, and he gravely stood, And the never a stir, stirred he, As he saw them compass the deed of blood, To its end with a ghastly glee, And O 'twas pity to hear the tones, Of the suppliant's voice in pain, As he sought to fly from the sticks and stones, And the yells of "Hit, hit him again!"