He goes on Sundays to the pub' With other festive boys, When drinking beer and goes of rum His precious time employs. Till he gets drunk, and going home He makes no end of noise, Then, with his poor half-starving wife He in a passion flies. He pulls her by the hair, from off The bed on which she lies, And kicks her round the room, and says Bad things about her eyes. Smoking, soaking, bullying, Onward through life he goes, Each morning sees a blackened eye Or else a broken nose. I fear within the County Gaol Calcraft his life will close; Thanks, thanks to thee, thou black blacksmith For the lesson thou hast taught. By Calcraft, or his deputy I never will be caught, And to that end I'll never do The thing I hadn't ought. From _Figaro Programme_, February 6, 1873. * * * * * THE NIGHT POLICEMAN. (_Not by Henry W. Longfellow._) Beside a noisy tavern door The night policeman stands, And a foaming pot of half-and-half, He clutches with eager hands; But little doth our Robert know He is watched by thievish bands. His voice is thick, his speech too strong For any sober man; His brow is wet with his tall helmet, He drinks whene'er he can; But the merry prig laughs in his face, He arrests not any man. Through the dark night to the broad daylight You can hear him tramp below, Until the serjeant hath passed, and then He soon doth leave his beat to go To visit a sprightly area belle, When the evening star is low. When the burglar, fixing a handy tool, Breaks in through the bolted door, And quickly pockets the notes and gold, And the glittering jewelled store store-- Hearing the laugh, as he gaily flies, Come from the kitchen floor. When Robert makes report next morn Of nought but naughty boys, Householders angrily impeach. He hears the inspector's voice; And he knows that his stately form no more Will make the cook rejoice. It sounds to him like a warning voice: Farewell to rabbit pies, And juicy ham and nourishing stout, And the pickles he doth prize. And with his worsted glove he wipes A tear from out his eyes. Shuffling, lying, sorrowing, He takes off his dark blue clothes-- Lantern, truncheon, and helmet too, With his cape he sadly throws. Burglaries attempted! Burglaries done! Out of the force he goes. From _Funny Folks_, May 22, 1875. * * * * * THE VILLAGE GROG SHOP. Under a spreading chestnut tree The village grog shop stands; The host a thirsty man is he, With large and bloated hands; And the vessels of his beery charms Are bright in pewter bands.