PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 107.
December 1, 1894.
ICHABOD.
As over London Bridge I went A constable I spied: His head upon his breast was bent, Against the parapet he leant, He gazed upon the stream intent, And as I passed he sighed.
"What ails thee, officer?" I cried In sympathetic tone. "What sorrow in thy soul is bred? Nay, never shake thy mournful head, But tell me of thy woes instead— Thou shalt not weep alone."
He eyed me for a moment's space In half-suspicious doubt; But reading not a single trace Of aught but pity in my face, He told me of his hapless case And poured his sorrows out.