All hail to Sir Henry, whom nothing surprises;

Ye Judges and suitors, regard him with awe,

As he sits up aloft on the Bench and applies his

Swift mind to the shifts and the tricks of the Law.

Many years has he lived, and has always seen clear things

That Nox seemed to hide from our average eyes:

But still, though encompassed with all sorts of queer things,

He never, no never gives way to surprise.

When a rogue, for example, a company-monger,

Grows fat on the gain of the shares he has sold,

While the public gets lean, winning nothing but hunger

And a few scraps of scrip for its masses of gold;

When the fat man goes further and takes to religion,

A rascal in hymn-books and bibles disguised,

"It's a case," says Sir Henry, "of rook versus pigeon,

And the pigeon gets left—well, I'm hardly surprised."

There's a Heath at Newmarket, and horses that run there,

There are owners and jockeys, and sharpers and flats;

There are some who do nicely, and some who are done there,

There are loud men with pencils and satchels and hats.

But the Stewards see nothing of betting or money,

As they stand in the blinkers for Stewards devised;

Their blindness may strike Henry Hawkins as funny,

But he only smiles softly, he isn't surprised.

So, here's to Sir Henry, the terror of tricksters,

Of Law he's a master, and likewise a limb:

His mind never once, when its purpose is fixed, errs;

For cuteness there's none holds a candle to him.

Let them try to deceive him, why, bless you, he's been there,

And can track his way straight through a tangle of lies;

And, though some might grow grey at the things he has seen there,

He never, no never, gives way to surprise.