Peter the Wag
POLICEMAN PETER forth I dragFrom 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 mouthInquired of MISTER FORTHThe way to somewhere in the South,He always sent you North.With little boys his beat alongHe loved to stop and play;He loved to send old ladies wrong,And teach their feet to stray.
He would in frolic moments, whenSuch mischief bent upon,Take Bishops up as betting men—Bid Ministers move on.Then all the worthy boys he knewHe regularly licked,And always collared people whoHad had their pockets picked.
He was not naturally bad,Or viciously inclined,But from his early youth he hadA waggish turn of mind.The Men of London grimly scowledWith indignation wild;The Men of London gruffly growled,But PETER calmly smiled.
Against this minion of the CrownThe swelling murmurs grew—From Camberwell to Kentish Town—From Rotherhithe to Kew.Still humoured he his wagsome turn,And fed in various waysThe 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 wayNear Poland Street, Soho.The haughty boy, too proud to ask,To find his way resolved,And in the tangle of his taskGot more and more involved.
The Men of London, overjoyed,Came there to jeer their foe,And flocking crowds completely cloyedThe mazes of Soho.The news on telegraphic wiresSped swiftly o’er the lea,Excursion trains from distant shiresBrought myriads to see.
For weeks he trod his self-made beatsThrough Newport- Gerrard- Bear-Greek- Rupert- Frith- Dean- Poland- Streets,And into Golden Square.But all, alas! in vain, for whenHe tried to learn the wayOf 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, whenHe 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 yearThat Crusher never ceased—The Men of London dropped a tear,Their anger was appeased.
At length exploring gangs were sentTo find poor FORTH’S remains—A handsome grant by ParliamentWas voted for their pains.To seek the poor policeman outBold 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—nearThe Royalty stage-door.With brandy cold and brandy hotThey plied him, starved and wet,And made him sergeant on the spot—The Men of London’s pet!