Whose walk is so stately and grand round the beat?
What tread sounds so martial upon the flagged street?
What countenance, calm as the face of the Sphinx,
Repels so the notion of frivolous winks?
Adored by the housemaid, beloved by the cook,
Whose souls he can harrow or thrill with a look;
The terror of urchins, whose ardor he checks,
Oh, who should it be but bold Constable X?
How the heart of the guilty against his ribs knocks,
As, rubbing his collar, he enters the box,
And kisses the book with a resonant smack,
Like the click of a latch or a rifle’s sharp crack.
Swear a hole through a pot? why he’d think it no feat
To swear holes through the whole of an ironclad fleet,
And no counsel the Four Courts can boast could perplex
Or puzzle that paragon, Constable X.
Yet he is not immortal; the greatest have hours
When the mind can descend from the stars to the flowers,
And he, even he, that great creature, has known
Some moments when grandeur deserted its throne.
And the pride of the Force at such times would have felt
Belittled, indeed, were it not for his belt.
For Cupid, the rogue, who ne’er comes but to vex,
Has got inside the tunic of Constable X.
Let the thoughtless world smile or condemn, if it please,
But, alas! ’tis the truth, he’s been seen on his knees,
He has even unbended to laughter and sport,
And his kiss has resounded outside of the court,
Oh, weep for his downfall, oh, mourn for his fate!
Redemption is hopeless and rescue too late;
Love’s handcuffs are on him, and one of the sex
Who ne’er release prisoners, has Constable X.