The Lament of the Lost One.
Residing in the Unprotectorate of Notting Hill.
Oh where, and oh where is our one policeman gone?
Each night (when it was light) we used to see him come;
And ’tis oh, in my heart, I fear we’re now not safe at home.
Suppose at my nose a cocked pistol I espy,
No policeman comes to save, tho’ Murder! loud I cry;
And for aid I must wait till somebody passeth by.
To “first catch your hare” is sound advice ’tis true;
But when my burglar’s caught, pray what am I to do?