In that hour when all is quiet

Sang he songs of noise and riot,

In a voice so loud and queer

That I wakened up to hear.

Songs that distantly resembled

Those one hears from men assembled

In the old Cross Keys Hotel,

Only sung not half so well.

For the time of this ecstatic

Amateur was most erratic,

And he only hit the key

Once in every melody.

If “he wot prigs wot isn’t his’n

Ven he’s cotched is sent to prison,”

He who murders sleep might well

Adorn a solitary cell.