(Or, “On The Track.”)

We have heard of the Bird by which Roche won renown, The Bird to posterity Boyle handed down, The Bird which the schoolboy who is not a dunce Will remember could be in two places at once; But the Bird of Sir Boyle must now take a back seat, While we sing of John Jackson’s more wonderful feat.

John Jackson has written his commonplace name In the boldest of hands on the parchment of fame. A convict, he played with his warder at spoof, Then brained him, and made his escape through the roof; Walked boldly away in a broad-arrow suit, And nobody seems to have noticed his route.

None saw him depart, but, as if to atone, He has never gone anywhere since an unknown; All over the kingdom, in less than a week, He has swaggered about with most marvellous cheek, Appearing--no worse for his terrible crime-- In Hampstead and Hull at the very same time.

He’s been traced to Penzance with a tramp for his pal; At Thurso, when seen, he was treating a gal; At Epsom he passed a flash note in the ring, Backed Ayrshire, and then was again on the wing. Flying north, flying south, if we rumours believe, Reaching Brighton and Glasgow the very same eve.

He’s been seen on the switchback, all over the town; At Epping he knocked many cocoanuts down; He has mixed with the parsons at Exeter Hall, And he’ll doubtless be seen at her Majesty’s ball. And he came up to London on purpose to see The Princess’s drama, the Something-my-Chree.

So Jackson the murderer roams o’er the land-- One day in the Highlands, the next in the Strand; Men, women, and children can see at a glance He’s the chap who has led the police such a dance. But they scorn to betray him by gesture or look, And are “mum” till the murderer’s taken his hook.

O please, dear detectives, who’re still on the track, We know that no skill, no devotion you lack; We know that you’re bound the first moment you can To collar this wicked and wonderful man. But it’s better to let him go free for six “monce” Than to take him in twenty-five places at once.

Another Danger.

My house was in flames, and the smoke and the heat By the staircase, I found, would prevent my retreat; So I rushed to the window and opened it wide, And I shouted for help that I might not be fried.

The window was many a foot from the ground. The people came running and gathered around; They asked me to jump, but I smiled and I said, “The pavement is rather too hard for my head.”

My plans soon assuming a definite shape, I said I would wait while they fetched the escape. They went off to find it, but came back to shout That it wasn’t the time for escapes to be out.

“I am burning,” I cried; “I am stifled with smoke; If you don’t get me out I shall certainly choke. Go tell the brave fellows who guard us from fire To bring the escape, or I’m bound to expire.”

They went off again, and each man did his best-- They scoured the east and they scoured the west; But wherever they went the result was the same-- I was left to the mercy of smoke and of flame.

They borrowed long ladders and a blanket and sheet, Then they asked me to jump about fifty-two feet; But, objecting to dash out my brains on the stone, I could only reply with a shriek and a groan.

The flames would not wait, so they burst through the room, And I felt the hot breath of my terrible doom; One last look I gave, but escape saw I none-- The men were off duty, their work being done.

* * * * *

My cinders together they carefully swept, The Press were indignant, my relatives wept; But I, who have passed to a sphere far away, Am able the blame at the right door to lay.

No blame must attach to the gallant Brigade, Overworked and--I’m sorry to say--underpaid; And I fail to discover a weakness or flaw In the rules as laid down by our brave Captain Shaw.

No doubt the disaster which killed me was dire, But the whole of the blame must be laid on the fire, Which chose to break out, to its shame be it said, At a time when the firemen had gone home to bed.

After the Act.

The Act of Sir John had been passed by the State, And the shops were all closed as Big Ben thundered eight; The desolate streets were denuded of light, And only the gin-palace gas-jets were bright.

The widow, whose poor little shop was her all, A tear on the shroud she was making let fall. One daughter, upstairs, in the garret lay dead, And another was dying, the doctor had said.

Ah! bitter the doom that the widow foresaw-- She was ruined and crushed by the “merciful” law; Her trade was all done with the people, you see, Who only at seven or eight are set free.

So her trade had dropped off, for no customers came, She was called on to close in “humanity’s” name; For in England, the land where dear Liberty reigns, If you sell after eight you are fined for your pains.

No matter that she by herself did the trade, And had neither shopman nor shopgirl to aid; The law of the Lubbock had settled her fate, A widow mayn’t work for herself after eight.

To the butcher in debt, to the baker as well, How the rent would be met the poor soul couldn’t tell, And she thought, with a feeling of terror and dread, Of the funeral bill for the child who lay dead.

Not a coin in the till, and to-morrow--O God!-- To be laid with her darling at rest ’neath the sod, To have passed from a land where the fanatics rave, And free Britons load with the chains of the slave!

Ha! a customer comes with her purse in her hand-- She wants this, she wants that. But the law of the land Forbids the poor widow to sell--it’s too late; The curfew has tolled--it’s a minute past eight.

But the silver is there, in the hand that’s held out; The poor widow weeps--the police are about; But the silver would save her, she knows it’s a crime, But she sells half-a-crown’s worth of goods after time.

She sells them, and clutches the silver with joy, When a bobby pops in--a mere bit of a boy-- And exclaims, “All right, missis, I’ve copped you at last; I’ve been watching the place for a week or two past.”

She is summoned and fined--O, just think of her sins!-- She had sold a young woman a packet of pins, Some paper, some envelopes, and--O, the crime!-- A Bible and Prayer-book, and all after time!

The widow is ruined, her stock seized for debt She is sent to the workhouse; the shop is to let. Let all honest widows be warned by her fate-- How dared she do work at a minute past eight!

O Lubbock, when moving your merciless Bill, You exclaimed, in a voice that made Westminster thrill, “What crimes are committed in Liberty’s name!”-- “In Humanity’s” surely you meant to exclaim.

The Rigadoon.