With heigh! sweet bards, O how they sing!--
With paste and scissors I set to work;
Shall a stolen song cost anything?

The Poet tirra-lirra chants,
With heigh! with heigh! he _must_ be a J.--
His Summer songs supply my wants;
They cost me nought--but, ah! they _pay_.

I have served Literature in my time, but now Literature is in _my_
service.

But shall I pay for what comes dear,
To the pale scribes who write,--
For news, and jokes, and stories queer?
Walker! my friends, not quite!
Since filchers may have leave to live,
And vend their "borrowed" budget,
For all my "notions" nix I'll give,
Then sell them as I trudge it.

My traffic is (news) sheets. My father named me AUTOLYCUS, who,
being as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up
of unconsidered trifles. With paste and scissors I procured this
caparison; and my revenue is the uninquiring public; gallows and gaol
are too powerful on the highway; picking and treadmilling are terrors
to burglars; but in _my_ line of theft I sleep free from the thought
of them. A prize! a prize!...

Jog on, jog on, the foot-pad way,