This is a brave Sub-Constable, a credit to the force,
To the landlord sleek and servile, to the peasant rude and coarse;
When Lord Knows Who was there, he could present his arms to him,
And then club Paddy Murphy with the true official vim.
And once when his contingent, in war’s circumstance and pride,
Turned out to spill his mother on the dreary mountain side,
His blood was cool—(discipline’s rule)—he made no moan, so he
Says no one should begrudge to him his rise of salaree.
This is a wise Head Constable, with little frills or lace,
But with a soul that’s panting for a much superior place,
He feels his head throb proudly with a bursting intellect,
And looks for that promotion which a genius should expect.
He has faced the jibes of Healy and such giants of the bar,
He has peeped through many a key-hole, when the door was not ajar;
He has shadowed many a priest and checked seditious childhood’s glee,
So is he not entitled to a rise of salaree?
And this, a Sub-Inspector, is a lady’s man, you know;
With braid, and rings, and eye-glass, he can make a gallant show;
Of justice he knows nothing, and of law he never dreamt,
But he can stop a meeting or he’ll fall in the attempt.
He can really waltz divinely; he can powder, he can puff,
And he’d quite an ear for music till ’twas spoiled by “Harvey Duff”;
He is silly, he is loyal,—he is all a Sub should be,
With a due appreciation of a rise of salaree.