BALLADS OF THE BRIEFLESS.

Oh, tell me not of empires grand,

Of proud dominion wide and far,

Of those who sway the fertile land

Where melons three for twopence are.

To rule like this I ne’er aspire,

In fact my book it would not suit!

The only rule that I desire,

Is a rule nisi to compute.

Oh speak not of the calm delights,

That in the fields or lanes we win;

The field and lane that me invites

Is Chancery or Lincoln’s Inn.

Yes, there in some remote recess,

At eve, I practise on my flute,

Till some attorney comes to bless

With a rule nisi to compute.

Oh, how oft when alone at the close of the day

I’ve sat in that Court where the fig-tree don’t grow

And wonder’d how I, without money, should pay

The little account to my laundress below!

And when I have heard a quick step on the stair,

I’ve thought which of twenty rich duns it could be,

I have rush’d to the door in a fit of despair,

And—received ten and sixpence for signing a plea.

CHORUS.—Signing a plea, signing a plea!

Received ten and sixpence for signing a plea.

They may talk as they will of the pleasure that’s found.

When venting in verse our despondence and grief;

But the pen of the poet was ne’er, I’ll be bound,

Half so pleasantly used as in signing a brief.

In soft declarations, though rapture may lie,

If the maid to appear to your suit willing be,

But ah I could write till my inkstand was dry,

And die in the act—yes—of signing a plea.

CHORUS.—Signing a plea, signing a plea!

Die in the act—yes—of signing a plea.