Out of the parish rates the peace to keep,
Each in his watch-coat warm and snugly laid—
The mild protectors of the public—sleep.
The choking call of passengers forlorn,
With the garotte twitch’d dext’rous o’er their heads,
Cries of “Police!” and “Murder!” faintly borne,
No more will rouse them from their cosy beds.
For them at morn no pompous beak shall turn
To the charge-sheet made out so neat and square,
No prisoner nabb’d shall swell the night’s return,