THE ENGLISH JUDGE.
(As sung by Dr. E. V. Kenealy).
Under the carved-oak canopy
Our ermined Justice sits;
The Judge, a mighty man is he,
With large and varied wits;
And nobly to his land and Queen
His duty he acquits.
His wig is crisp, and gray, and full,
And if his face you scan,
'Tis furrow'd deep with lines of thought;
'Twere hard his brow to span.
And he looks the whole world in the face,
For he fears not any man.
Term in, term out, from ten till four,
You can hear his accents clear;
You can hear him crush deceit and fraud
With authority severe,
But the innocent and helpless one
Has naught from him to fear.
And strangers "doing" London sights
Look in at the swinging door;
They love to see his massive form,
And to hear his legal lore,
And to catch the pearls of thought that drop
From his copious mental store.
At four for home he leaves the bench,
And 'midst his books and notes
His leisure far into the night
To "cases" he devotes.
Nor counts his nights and mornings lost,
If justice he promotes.
With patient care he extricates
The tangled legal skein;
Whilst barristers and clients sleep,
Re-links the broken chain,
And ere the hour of ten has come
Is at his post again.
Toiling, re-searching, circuiting,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees new work begun,
But not each night its close;
And not till Long Vacation comes
Can he expect repose.
Thanks, thanks! then, to the English Judge
For the lessons he has taught!
For a life so earnest and so pure,
With good example fraught.
And may we all learn this from him,—
How duty should be wrought.
Truth Christmas Number, 1879.