In Paris he is fierce and small,
But tho' he twirls his waxed moustache,
The natives heed him not at all.
No more does the apache.
And cabmen, when he lifts his palm,
Drive over him without a qualm.
The German minion of the law
Is stern, inflexible, austere.
His presence fills his friends with awe,
The foreigner with fear.
Your doom is sealed if he should pass
And find you walking on the grass!
But no policeman can compare
With London's own partic'lar pet;
A martyr he who stands foursquare
To ev'ry Suffragette,
And when that lady kicks his shins
Or bites his ankles, merely grins.
He may not be as bright, forsooth,
As Dr. Watson's famous foil,—
Sherlock, that keen unerring sleuth
Immortalised by Doyle,
And Patti who, where'er she roams,
Asserts "There's no Police like Holmes!"
But though his movements, staid and slow,
Provide the vulgar with a jest,
How true the heart that beats below
That whistle at his breast!
How perfect an example he
Of what a constable should be!
XII
THE MUSIC-HALL COMEDIAN
When the day of toil is ended,
When our labours are suspended,
And we hunger for agreeable society,
The relentless voice of Pleasure
Bids us spend an hour of leisure
In a Music-Hall or Palace of Variety,
Where to furnish relaxation
Ev'ry effort is directed,
Tho' the claims of ventilation
Have been carefully neglected.