  A Horror of London Town O N London streets by a gin shop door,In the blaze of a noontide sun, With horrible zest of a thirst for gore, Was a desperate murder done, On the sainted flags of a Christian town, I saw this outrage planned, And three little boys, in crime, sere brown Were there with a helping hand. 'Twas a group of seven—I counted them all, A group of seven strong men, And summing them up, with the criminals small, Their total I think was ten, With umbrellas, and sticks, and stones, They hunted a sad wretch down, Mid random of kicks, and ogerous groans, A shame unto London town! But while was fought the unequal fight, That murder of ten to one, There came an ominous venger of right, They call him a copper for fun, And I said he'll be pulling the lot of them; then The villians ha! ha! shall see There are dungeons dark for the murderous ten, In the walls of the Old Bailee! But no! He paused, and he gravely stood, And the never a stir, stirred he, As he saw them compass the deed of blood, To its end with a ghastly glee, And O 'twas pity to hear the tones, Of the suppliant's voice in pain, As he sought to fly from the sticks and stones, And the yells of "Hit, hit him again!" A drayman flourished the butt of his whip, I am sure it was loaded with lead, And his laugh was wild, as a terrible clip, He aimed at the victim's head! Alas! too sure, by the jugular vein, He was struck, and he dropped and died, And the drayman shook, as he laughed amain, For blood was the caitiff's pride! But O I proved, ere I wandered home, There yet was a friend most true, Who bore the corse to a silent tomb, Ah! yes, and embalmed it too, A kind purveyor came walking by, And he stopped on the edge of the flag, Then turned to his boy, and exclaimed with a sigh, "Jim, slip the dead rat in your bag." illustration |
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