Sometimes my Conscience says, say he,
" Don't you know me? "
And I, says I, skeered through and through,
" Of course I do.
You air a nice chap ever' way,
I'm here to say!
You make me cry — you make me pray,
And all them good things thataway —
That is, at night . Where do you stay
Durin' the day? "

And then my Conscience says, onc't more,
" You know me — shore? "
" Oh, yes, " says I, a-trimblin' faint,
" You're jes' a saint!
Your ways is all so holy-right,
I love you better ever' night
You come around, — tel' plum daylight,
When you air out o' sight! "

And then my Conscience sort o' grits
His teeth, and spits
On his two hands and grabs, of course,
Some old remorse,
And beats me with the big butt-end
O' that thing — tel my clostest friend
'Ud hardly know me. " Now, " says he,
" Be keerful as you'd orto be
And allus think o' me! "