The curbstone no more when their highlows can wear.
Home! home! they’ve no home:
For poor old Policemen there’s no place like home!
* * * * *
Then let a snug station await Life’s decline,
When once sturdy fists must their truncheons resign;
And ere his worn frame is consign’d to the loam,
Oh, grant the Policemen a few years of home!
Home! home! short, short home!
Let worn out Policemen have some place like home