The Barristers of England, how listlessly they sit, Expending on each other a small amount of wit; Without the opportunity of doing something worse, By talking nonsense at the cost of some poor client’s purse. The Barristers of England, how when they get a cause, They (some of them) will disregard all gentlemanly laws; And bullying the witnesses upon the adverse side, Will do their very utmost the honest truth to hide. The Barristers of England, how with _sang froid_ sublime, They undertake to advocate two causes at one time; And when they find it is a thing impossible to do, They throw one client overboard, but take the fees of two. The Barristers of England, how rarely they refuse, The party they appear against with coarseness to abuse; Feeling a noble consciousness no punishment can reach The vulgar ribaldry they call the “privilege of speech.” The Barristers of England, how often they degrade An honourable calling to a pettifogging trade, And show how very slight the lines of separation are. Between the cabman’s license, and the “licence of the Bar.” The Barristers of England, how, if they owe a grudge, They try with insolence to goad a poor Assistant-Judge; And after having bullied him, their bold imposture clench By talking of their high respect for the Judicial Bench. The Barristers of England, how sad it is to feel That rant will pass for energy, and bluster goes for zeal; But ’tis a consolation that ’mid their ranks there are Sufficient gentlemen to save the credit of the Bar. _Punch_, November 26, 1853. ―――― THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. (By Infelicia Shemans.) The compo’d homes of England! ’Tis wonderful they stand Their weight of shaky chimney-pots, Smoke-drying all the land. Adown their flimsy tissue roofs Slate after slate fast slips; Each gentle rain that on them falls Through crack and crevice drips. The drafty homes of England! Alas! how one must squeeze Close round the grate in winter time Unless one quite would freeze. There every voice continually Of some vile ache complains; Lumbago, or sciatica, Or stiff rheumatic pains. The stifling homes of England! In summer’s sunny time More close and suffocating Than hot India’s burning clime! No breath of coolness finds its way From morn till evening’s close; But countless vile impurities Assail each inmate’s nose. The smoky homes of England! Spread o’er the smoky land, If smoke were only grandeur We’d all be passing grand. The dull blue vapour pours itself Increasingly adown Each chimney, and provokingly Turns everything black-brown.