The furtive sneak who filches from
The bookstall's dingy rows,
Should by the ears be nailed aloft,
Along with kites and crows.

Now listen, ye who covet books,
But don't know where to buy 'em,
Of one who played much deeper tricks—
But pray don't go and try 'em.

In London's dingiest, bookiest street,
Not far off from the Strand,
There dwelt a man who dealt in books,
Short-sighted, wise and bland.

He had a partner for his help,
Far-seeing, pompous, bluff,
A man whom e'en his enemy
Would never call a muff.

These twain, for want of better names,
Sluther we'll call, and Slyum—
Now, gentle reader, pray don't try:
You can't identify 'em.

This worthy pair a client had,
Who, in his earlier days,
Had honest been, but, losing tone,
Fell into wicked ways;

And straying far, and stumbling oft
O'er moral hill and hummock,
He came at last to filch a book,
To fill an empty stomach.

And this is how he did the deed
(Now, “gentle,” don't you try it,
For though he took the book by guile,
He certainly did buy it):

He wandered into Sluther's shop,
As in the days gone by,
Where many a goodly tome he'd bought
At prices fairly high;

And after passing round the shelves,
As was his wont of yore,
He chose a volume, small but rare,
Worth shillings p'r'aps a score.

Then turning with abstracted air
To where poor Sluther stood,
He said, “You'll put it down to me,”
And Sluther said he would.

Their shop was long and low and dim,
The front was ruled by Sluther;
While Slyum “kept the books” and dwelt
In darkness at the other.

Our villain pushed his wicked way,
Past connoisseur and gull,
To where old Slyum kept accounts;
For Sluther's shop was full.

And there with conversation bland,
And specious balderdash,
He showed his book to Slyum, and—
He sold it him for cash!

If furtive sneaks, who help themselves
To books from stalls and boxes,
Are treated like the kites and crows,
What should be done with foxes?