egree, and he will hunt in spite of all perils and all punishments
when he sights his prey. One comic old rascal whom I know well has been
caught thirty times and imprisoned eight times. While he is in gaol he
always occupies himself in composing songs in praise of poaching, and on
the evening of his release he is invariably called on to furnish the
company in the tap-room with his new composition. He cannot read or
write, but he learns his songs by heart, and I have taken down a large
number of them from his own lips. The things are much like Jemmy
Catnach's stuff, so far as rhyme and rhythm are concerned, but they are
interesting on account of the sly exultation that runs through them.

In one poem the lawless bard gives an account of a day's life in gaol,
and his coarse phrases make you almost feel the cold and hunger. Here
are some scraps from this descriptive work:--

"Till seven we walk around the yard,
There is a man all to you guard.
If you put your hand out so,
Untoe the guv'nor you must go;
Eight o'clock is our breakfast hour,
Those wittles they do soon devour;
Oh! dear me, how they eat and stuff,
Lave off with less than half enough.
Nine o'clock you mount the mill,
That you mayn't cramp from settin' still.
If that be ever so against your will,
You must mount on the traaedin' mill.
There is a turnkey that you'll find
He is a raskill most unkind.
To rob poor prisoners he is that man,
To chaaete poor prisoners where he can.
At eleven o'clock we march upstairs
To hear the parson read the prayers.
Then we are locked into a pen--
It's almost like a lion's den.
There's iron bars big round as your thigh,
To make you of a prison shy.
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 b