His tap is "Watney," "Meux," and "Long," And bitter as the tan; His till is fill'd with ready coin, He cheats whene'er he can, He looks the whole "Bench" in the face, And he trusts not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear the liquor flow; And after hours the bobby's tread, With measured beat and slow, Like a convict working the cheerful mill When his morals have been low. And maidens, not long freed from school, Jot down th' increasing score, They love to see the lab'rers gorge, And hear the rustics roar, And catch th' attempted wits--so "fly," With chaff--from a sawdust floor. He goes in Sessions 'fore the Bench, And sits among the crowd; He hears the "unpaid" jaw and preach, He hears his counsel's voice Pleading with legalic fire; And licensed, has his choice. It makes him think of the Three per Cents. Wherein his money lies! He needs must think of her once more How in the bar she plies, And with his hard rough hands he lifts His beer-mug to the skies. Spoiling--adult'ring--borrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some cask begun, Each evening sees its close; Somebody tempted, something won, Has earned the pub's repose." _Mirth_, March, 1878. F. H. S. * * * * * THE ENGLISH JUDGE. (_As sung by Dr. E. V. Kenealy_). Under the carved-oak canopy Our ermined Justice sits; The Judge, a mighty man is he, With large and varied wits; And nobly to his land and Queen His duty he acquits. His wig is crisp, and gray, and full, And if his face you scan, 'Tis furrow'd deep with lines of thought; 'Twere hard his brow to span. And he looks the whole world in the face, For he fears not any man. Term in, term out, from ten till four, You can hear his accents clear; You can hear him crush deceit and fraud With authority severe, But the innocent and helpless one Has naught from him to fear. And strangers "doing" London sights Look in at the swinging door; They love to see his massive form, And to hear his legal lore, And to catch the pearls of thought that drop From his copious mental store. At four for home he leaves the bench, And 'midst his books and notes His leisure far into the night To "cases" he devotes. Nor counts his nights and mornings lost, If justice he promotes. With patient care he extricates The tangled legal skein; Whilst barristers and clients sleep, Re-links the broken chain, And ere the hour of ten has come Is at his post again.