He opened the safe, and he smashed the bureau, He looted the drawers, and shelf, Of the plate, and the clocks, and the watches, and cash, From the cabinet, quick as an elf. Slid everything down to his pal, with a rope, And then he slid down it himself, They drove with the swag, from the terrace amain, In a couple of hired out traps; And the city, was billed on the following day, With the Special Editions in caps! * * * * * 'Twas a reasonable period, from the incident above, That a solemn deputation came down, For the candidate to speak in a socialistic vein, To the voters of the east of London town: "We'll be looking for you there, on waggon No. I. Near the arch, that's of marble, in the park," But he pointed to the door "O tell them that I'm dead; For cram it! I am not up to the mark," [Illustration: A CANTABILE ON MUSIC, ART, AND LAW.] Ho! there, pumps and castanets for three, We would dance a brief measure. O YOU will wonder why we're here, And wish that we were far, By wig, and gown, it doth appear, We're members of the bar, And tho' we are, we say to you, We all of us opine, That we may justly claim our due, In an artistic line. We are the type of one, you know, As well as we can tell, He is a burly splendid beau, A stately howling swell!-- A signor of the lyric stage, An operatic Don,-- And by similitude, we'll wage That he, and we are one! 'Tis true, tho' he is mostly stout, We're nearly always thin, But if you turn us inside out, We're stouter men within. For he is all a puff, and smoke, A sound that dies away; But we are they who crack a joke, That lasts for many a day. He has his crotchets; we do harp, On clients, this, and that, He has his sharps, and we are sharp, His flats, and they are flat; He blows away his notes, but we, Are shrewder men by far, The notes we get professionly, We stick them to the Bar! His quavers, they are nothing to The rallantando thrills, That shake our clients, when we screw The rosin on their bills. They often simulate, as deaf, When we do charge a case, Our time is on the treble cleff, And their's is on the base. We make a loud fortissimo, When pleading in the wrong, And often pianissimo, When we should put it strong, But still we pull our fees the same, Tho' suits may not be won, And by our tongue, we conquer fame, Like that conceited Don.