THE BOBBY TO THE SNEERING LADY
67
Last week, eatin’ a gill bread,
Me t’row piece out on de lea;
An’ A ketch a ’port fe dat
Which meant five roun’ mac to me.
Constab-charge, civilian-charge,
Life’s a burden every way;
But reward fund[1] mus’ kep’ up
Out o’ poo’ policeman pay.
Ef our lot, then, is so hard,
I mus’ ever bear in mind
Dat to fe me own black ’kin
I mus’ not be too unkind.
An’ p’r’aps you too will forgive
Ef I’ve spoken rather free,
An’ will let me somet’ing ask
Which may soften you to me:
In de middle o’ de night,
When de blackness lies do’n deep,
Who protects your homes an’ stores
While de Island is asleep?
When de dead stars cannot shine
Sake o’ rain an’ cloud an’ storm,
Who keeps watch out in de street
So dat not’in’ comes to harm?
- ↑ A fund out of which rewards are given to constables for meritorious work.
