At four one afternoon;

I saw a stately peeler there,

He softly hummed a tune.

The sun-rays lit his buttons bright;

He stalked with stately stride;

It was a fair and goodly sight—

The peeler in his pride

And padded was his manly breast,

Such kingly mien had he,

And such a chest, I thought how blest

That peeler's lot must be.

I noted well his martial air,

And settled that of course

He was the idol of the fair,

The angel of the Force.

No cook or house-maid could resist,

I felt, by any chance,

That dark moustache with cork-screw twist,

That marrow-searching glance.

And o'er each little news-boy's head

He towered like a mast;

His voice, to match that stately tread,

Should shame a trumpet-blast!

I pondered on the matter much

And thought I'd like to be

Escorted to the "dock" by such

A demi-god as he.

I gazed upon his form entranced—

He never noticed me,

For visions through his fancy danced

Of mutton cold for tea.

He knew he hadn't long to stand

'Till—Mary's labours o'er—

She'd lead him gently by the hand

Inside the kitchen door.

Ensconced in some snug vantage-coign

At ease he'd stretch each limb,

And feast on cutlet and sirloin,

Purloined for love of him.

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I leant against a scaffold-beam—

I must have had a nap

I think, because I had a dream—

I dreamt I was a 'trap'!

I thought I had allegiance sworn

And that there was for me

The regulation tile that's worn

By every trap you see;

The coat and thingumbobs as well,

What joy could equal this?

No Gillott's patent pens could tell

My wild ecstatic bliss!

I thought they portioned out my beat—

A foot I'm sure I grew,

And as I walked up Hunter Street

I felt a match for two.

I felt my bosom throb behind

My coat of azure blue,

And trembled for the peace of mind

Of every girl I knew.

I saw myself in future fights

The populace enthrall,

While brightly blaze the city lights

I cry "come one, come all!"

To grab their leader see me try

(Though rent my lovely coat)

The light of battle in my eye,

My hand upon his throat!

The truncheon used with practised skill

Requites him for his sin,

In such a hand as mine it will

Abraise his rebel skin.

I thought of each bush-ranging chap,

And for a moment sighed

That I was not a mounted trap

Through tea-tree scrub to ride.

But soon the notion I dismiss,

For I can plainly see

That such a line of life as this

Much harder lines would be.

Beneath a bushel in the bush

My shining light to hide,

I felt would be a gross misuse

Of Sydney's hope and pride.

My look alone would petrify

A breaker of the peace,

And where I turned my searching eye

Dishonesty would cease.

Police reports my name should state,

Each deed of mine should be

A deed for traps to emulate,

And try to be like me.

My blushing honours should be worn

With unobtrusive grace,

And energy and zeal adorn

My calm heroic face.

My beat was not in nasty slums

Where vulgar rowdies meet;

But see! the conquering hero comes—

The pride of George's Street!

I thought he'd be a hardy boy

Who'd shout in accents coarse

"Who stole the mutton-pie, ahoy!"

Now I was in the force.

Or should a cabby ere presume

To overcharge a fare,

My eagle glance it would consume

That cabby then and there.

Now mercy light on yonder boy

Who blows the sportive pea!

His visage lit with fiendish joy—

For he'll get none from me.

Some power save him from my care,

Preserve him from my clutch,

Or mutilated past repair

He 'll have to use a crutch.

His form, though supple as an eel,

His mother wouldn't know

Again if I'd a chance to deal

One stiffening truncheon blow!

No more his little idle hands

Will scatter orange peel

When fast enclosed in iron bands,

Or brightly polished steel.

I'd marked a nice secluded seat,

'Twas somewhere in the park,

Where I could slumber long and sweet

As soon as it got dark.

I spotted out each servant gal

I'd let make love to me,

The houses where I'd take a "spell,"

And call and have my tea.

I took the bearings of the doors,

And windows front and back

Where I, unseen, by vulgar boors,

Could go and have a "snack."

Fond, foolish women, at my feet

In yearning worship fell,

And one, she was uncommon sweet,

Her name I'll never tell.

I thought I'd never lived 'till now,

Or that I'd lived in vain;

It was a hardish rub, I vow,

That I should wake again.

Fulfilment of a nobler plan

Ambition couldn't crave—

I was a trap!—each common man

Seemed born to be my slave!

But stay—whose hand is on me now?

Who dares to clutch my cape?

What light is this, and who art thou,

Thou shadowy, ghastly shape?

A fearful light is shed around,

I quake and dare not stir—

A voice! and husky is its sound—

It says,—"'Ullo! you, Sir!"

Before me was the man I'd praised,

And my illusion fled

When his infernal truncheon raised

A blister on my head.

Sometimes at midnight's solemn hour

I dream this dream again,

And, thinking its her form once more,

The pillow tightly strain;

Or fiercely to the door I spring,

And firmly grip the hasp,

And smile to think I've got again

The truncheon in my grasp.

The beads of sweat they gather fast,

And from my nose they fall,

I wake, and find, alas! alas!

I'm not a trap at all!

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