on that stricken field goes down the angry sun. Night falls upon the field of death, night on the darkling lea: Oh send us such a tournay soon, and send me there to see!

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p. 90

p. 91BALLAD OF THE PHILANTHROPIST

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Pomona Road and Gardens, N., Were pure as they were fair— In other districts much I fear, That vulgar language shocks the ear, But brawling wives or noisy men Were never heard of there.

Pomona

No burglar fixed his dread abode In that secure retreat, There were no public-houses nigh, But chapels low and churches high, You might have thought Pomona Road A quite ideal beat!

Yet that was not at all the view Taken by B. 13. That active and intelligent Policeman deemed that he was meant p. 92Profound detective deeds to do, And that repose was mean.

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Now there was nothing to detect Pomona Road along— None faked a cly, nor cracked a crib, Nor prigged a wipe, nor told a fib,— Minds cultivated and select Slip rarely into wrong!

Thus bored to desolation went The Peeler on his beat; He know not Love, he did not care, If Love be born on mountains bare; Nay, crime to punish, or prevent, Was more than dalliance sweet!

The weary wanderer, day by day, Was marked by Howard Fry— A neighbouring philanthropist, Who saw what that Policeman missed— A sympathetic ‘Well-a-day’ He’d moan, and pipe his eye.

p. 93‘What can I do,’ asked Howard Fry, ‘To soothe that brother’s pain? His glance when first we met was keen, Most martial and erect his mien’ (What mien may mean, I know not I) ‘But he must joy again.’

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‘I’ll start on a career of crime, I will,’ said Howard Fry— He spake and acted! Deeds of bale (With which I do not stain my tale) He wrought like mad time after 

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