A TRIBUTE TO THE POLICEMEN OF ENGLAND’S CAPITAL

Here in my cosy corner,
  Before a blazing log,
I’m thinking of cold London
  Wrapped in its killing fog;
And, like a shining beacon
  Above the picture grim,
I see the London ‘Bobby,’
  And sing my song for him.

I see his stalwart figure,
  I see his kindly face,
I hear his helpful answer
  At any hour or place.
For, though you seek some by-way
  Long miles from his own beat,
He tells you all about it,
  And how to find the street.

He looks like some bold Viking,
  This king of earth’s police -
Yet in his voice lies feeling,
  And in his eye lies peace;
He knows and does his duty -
  (What higher praise is there?)
And London’s lords and paupers
  Alike receive his care.

He has a regal bearing,
  Yet one that breathes repose;
It is the look and manner
  Of one who thinks and knows.
Oh, men who govern nations,
  In old worlds or in new,
Turn to the London ‘Bobby’
  And learn a thing or two.