!
At pulling out his scraps,--
The very sight of his broken orts
Made a work in his wrinkled chaps:
"Come down," says he, "you Newgate-bird,
And have a taste of my snaps!"--

IV.

Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast,
I slided, and by him stood:
But I wish'd myself on the gallows again
When I smelt that beggar's food,--
A foul beef bone and a mouldy crust;--
"Oh!" quoth he, "the heavens are good!"

V.

Then after this grace he cast him down:
Says I, "You'll get sweeter air
A pace or two off, on the windward side"--
For the felons' bones lay there--
But he only laugh'd at the empty skulls,
And offer'd them part of his fare.

VI.

"I never harm'd _them_, and they won't harm me:
Let the proud and the rich be cravens!"
I did not like that strange beggar man,
He look'd so up at the heavens--
Anon he shook out his empty old poke;--
"There's the crumbs," saith he, "for the ravens!"

VII.

It made me angry to see his face,
It had such a jesting look;
But while I made up my mind to speak,
A small case-bottle he took:
Quoth he, "Though I gather the green water-cress,
My drink is not of the brook!"

VIII.

Full manners-like he tender'd the dram;
Oh it came of a dainty cask!
But, whenever it came to his turn to pull,
"Your leave, good sir, I must ask;
But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve,
When a hangman sups at my flask!"

IX.

And then he laugh'd so loudly and long,
The churl was quite out of breath;
I thought the very Old One was come
To mock me before my death,
And wish'd I had buried the dead men's bones
That were lying about the heath!

X

But the beggar gave me a jolly clap--
"Come, let us pledge each other,
For all the wide world is dead beside,
And we are brother and brother--
I've a yearning for thee in my heart,
As if we had come of one mother."

XI.

"I've a yearning for thee in my heart
That almost makes me weep,
For as I pass'd from town to town
The folks were all stone-asleep,--
But when I saw thee sitting aloft,
It made me both laugh and leap!"

XII.

Now a curse (I thought) be on his love,
And a curse upon his mirth,--
An it were not for that beggar man
I'd be the King of the earth,--
But I promis'd myself, an hour should come
To make him rue his birth!--

XIII.

So down we sat and bons'd again
Till the sun was in mid-sky,
When, just as the gentle west-wind came,
We hearken'd a dismal cry:
"Up, up, on the tree," quoth the begga