FOUND him, sitting on a seat,

With sad reflective mien,

A drowsing pathos, in his eye,

Tinged with a tint of green,

I sat him by "good friend" I said,

"Of pilgrims, the resort,

Is this a church?" "I wish it wor!"

Cried he, "It's Bow Street Court!"

And then again, I looked at him,

Once more, I spoke him kind,

"Thy far off gaze, doth indicate,

Some presence, on thy mind,

Some haunting thought, of grave import,

Connected with the fate,

Perchance, that thou, mayhap, may meet,

When in the future state.

O speak the burden of thy heart,

That I may note it down,"

"It be's I was a boozin', and

I'm fined a quid and crown,

My far off look, is for that fine,

To dodge the prison gate,

And warders' lock on fourteen days,

That quads my future state.