Though crosses and candles we play with at home, To go the whole gander, there’s no place like Rome; We’ve statues and relics to hallow us there, Which, save in museums, you’ll not find elsewhere, Rome, Rome, sweet, sweet Rome! For all us Tractarians there’s no place like Rome _Punch._ 1850. ―――― THE POLICEMAN’S HOME. Up courts and round palaces long may they roam, But ancient policemen have no sort of home To offer them shelter, and comfort, and care, The curbstone no more when their highlows can wear. Home! home! they’ve no home: For poor old Policemen there’s no place like home! * * * * * Then let a snug station await Life’s decline, When once sturdy fists must their truncheons resign; And ere his worn frame is consign’d to the loam, Oh, grant the Policemen a few years of home! Home! home! short, short home! Let worn out Policemen have some place like home _Punch._ December 6, 1851. ―――― SONGS OF THE CIRCUIT. From Circuit to Circuit although we may roam, Be it ever so briefless, there’s none like the Home; A fee from the skies p’rhaps may follow us there, Which, seek through the Courts is ne’er met with elsewhere Home, Home, sweet sweet Home, There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home. When out on the Home, lodgings tempt you in vain, The railroad brings you back to your chambers again: On the Home the expenses for posting are small; Give me that――’tis the Circuit, the cheapest of all. Home, Home, sweet sweet Home, There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home. _Punch._ March 23, 1884. ―――― HOME, SWEET HOME! _Modern Version._ ’Midst mansions and palaces worthy of Rome, How pleasant, great Bumble, is Poverty’s home! Gehenna-like gloom seems to circle us there, Which, seek through the world, is scarce met with elsewhere. Foul fume as from Styx seems to hang o’er the spot, Its gutters that reek and its rafters that rot, Its rain-sodden dwellings that threaten to fall, And its squalid, sad denizens, drearer than all. Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home! As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!