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Bab Ballads (version 2)

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<h2>PETER THE WAG</h2> Policeman Peter forth I drag    From his obscure retreat: He was a merry genial wag,    Who loved a mad conceit. If he were asked the time of day,    By country bumpkins green, He not unfrequently would say,    “A quarter past thirteen.” If ever you by word of mouth    Inquired of Mister Forth The way to somewhere in the South,    He always sent you North. With little boys his beat along    He loved to stop and play; He loved to send old ladies wrong,    And teach their feet to stray. He would in frolic moments, when    Such mischief bent upon, Take Bishops up as betting men—    Bid Ministers move on. Then all the worthy boys he knew    He regularly licked, And always collared people who    Had had their pockets picked. He was not naturally bad,    Or viciously inclined, But from his early youth he had    A waggish turn of mind. The Men of London grimly scowled    With indignation wild; The Men of London gruffly growled,    But Peter calmly smiled. Against this minion of the Crown    The swelling murmurs grew— From Camberwell to Kentish Town—    From Rotherhithe to Kew. Still humoured he his wagsome turn,    And fed in various ways The coward rage that dared to burn,    But did not dare to blaze. Still, Retribution has her day,    Although her flight is slow: One day that Crusher lost his way    Near Poland Street, Soho. The haughty boy, too proud to ask,    To find his way resolved, And in the tangle of his task    Got more and more involved. The Men of London, overjoyed,    Came there to jeer their foe, And flocking crowds completely cloyed    The mazes of Soho. The news on telegraphic wires    Sped swiftly o’er the lea, Excursion trains from distant shires    Brought myriads to see. For weeks he trod his self-made beats    Through Newport- Gerrard- Bear- Greek- Rupert- Frith- Dean- Poland- Streets,    And into Golden Square. But all, alas! in vain, for when    He tried to learn the way Of little boys or grown-up men,    They none of them would say. Their eyes would flash—their teeth would grind—    Their lips would tightly curl— They’d say, “Thy way thyself must find,    Thou misdirecting churl!” And, similarly, also, when    He tried a foreign friend; Italians answered, “Il balen”—    The French, “No comprehend.” The Russ would say with gleaming eye    “Sevastopol!” and groan. The Greek said, “Τυπτω, τυπτομαι,    Τυπτω, τυπτειν, τυπτων.” To wander thus for many a year    That Crusher never ceased— The Men of London dropped a tear,    Their anger was appeased. At length exploring gangs were sent    To find poor Forth’s remains— A handsome grant by Parliament    Was voted for their pains. To seek the poor policeman out    Bold spirits volunteered, And when they swore they’d solve the doubt,    The Men of London cheered. And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear,    They found him, on the floor— It leads from Richmond Buildings—near    The Royalty stage-door. With brandy cold and brandy hot    They plied him, starved and wet, And made him sergeant on the spot—    The Men of London’s pet! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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