The Bobby to the Sneering Lady
You may sneer at us, madam,
But our work is beastly hard;
An’ while toilin thus we scarce
Ever get a lee reward.
Our soul’s jes’ like fe you,
If our work does make us rough;
Me won’t ’res’ you servant-gal
When you’ve beaten her enough.
You may say she is me frien’,
We are used to all such prate;
Naught we meet on life’s stern road
But de usual scorn an’ hate.
Say dat you wi’ ’port me, ma’am?
I was lookin’ fe dat,—well,
Our Inspector’s flinty hard,
’Twill be few days’ pay or cell.
Pains an’ losses of such kind
To we p’licemen’s not’in’ new;
Still A’d really like fe hear
Wha’ good it wi’ do to you.
66
