THE NIGHT POLICEMAN.
(Not by Henry W. Longfellow.)
Beside a noisy tavern door
The night policeman stands,
And a foaming pot of half-and-half,
He clutches with eager hands;
But little doth our Robert know
He is watched by thievish bands.
His voice is thick, his speech too strong
For any sober man;
His brow is wet with his tall helmet,
He drinks whene'er he can;
But the merry prig laughs in his face,
He arrests not any man.
Through the dark night to the broad daylight
You can hear him tramp below,
Until the serjeant hath passed, and then
He soon doth leave his beat to go
To visit a sprightly area belle,
When the evening star is low.
When the burglar, fixing a handy tool,
Breaks in through the bolted door,
And quickly pockets the notes and gold,
And the glittering jewelled store store—
Hearing the laugh, as he gaily flies,
Come from the kitchen floor.
When Robert makes report next morn
Of nought but naughty boys,
Householders angrily impeach.
He hears the inspector's voice;
And he knows that his stately form no more
Will make the cook rejoice.
It sounds to him like a warning voice:
Farewell to rabbit pies,
And juicy ham and nourishing stout,
And the pickles he doth prize.
And with his worsted glove he wipes
A tear from out his eyes.
Shuffling, lying, sorrowing,
He takes off his dark blue clothes—
Lantern, truncheon, and helmet too,
With his cape he sadly throws.
Burglaries attempted! Burglaries done!
Out of the force he goes.
From Funny Folks, May 22, 1875.