Pomona Rand Gardens, N.,
Were pure as they were fair -
In other districts much I fear,
That vulgar language shocks the ear,
But brawling wives or noisy men
Were never heard of THERE.
No burglar fixed his dread abode
In that secure retreat,
There were no public-houses nigh,
But chapels low and churches high,
You might have thought Pomona R
A quite ideal beat!
Yet that was not at all the view
Taken by B. 13.
That active and intelligent
Policeman deemed that he was meant
Profound detective deeds to do,
And that repose was mean.
Now there was nothing to detect
Pomona Ralong -
None faked a cly, nor cracked a crib,
Nor prigged a wipe, nor told a fib,--
Minds cultivated and select
Slip rarely into wrong!
Thus bored to desolation went
The Peeler on his beat;
He know not Love, he did not care,
If Love be born on mountains bare;
Nay, crime to punish, or prevent,
Was more than dalliance sweet!
The weary wanderer, day by day,
Was marked by Howard Fry -
A neighbouring philanthropist,
Who saw what that Policeman missed -
A sympathetic 'Well-a-day'
He'd moan, and pipe his eye.
'What CAN I do,' asked Howard Fry,
'To soothe that brother's pain?
His glance when first we met was keen,
Most martial and erect his mien'
(What mien may mean, I know not I)
'But HE must joy again.'
'I'll start on a career of crime,
I will,' said Howard Fry -
He spake and acted! Deeds of bale
(With which I do not stain my tale)
He wrought like mad time after time,
Yet wrought them blushfully.
And now when 'buses night by night
Were stopped, conductors slain,
When youths and men, and maids unwed,
Were stabbed or knocked upon the head,
Then B. 13 grew sternly bright,
And was himself again!
Pomona Rand Gardens, N.,
Are now a name of fear.
Commercial travellers flee in haste,
Revolvers girt about the waist
Are worn by city gentlemen
Who have their mansions near.
But B. 13 elated goes,
Detection in his eye;
While Howard Fry does deeds of bale
(With which I do not stain my tale)
To lighten that Policeman's woes,
But does them blushfully.
MORAL
Such is Philanthropy, my friends,
Too often such her plan,
She shoots, and stabs, and robs, and flings
Bombs, and all sorts of horrid things.
Ah, not to serve her private ends,
But for the good of Man!
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