In the flight of the year, in a dreary bog station.
One might think that the Sergeant had time for elation ;
From New Year's arrival, till old it depart,
He's never at rest in head, body, or heart.
Each morning at eight the old guard he replaces,
To the backyard at nine for parade then he faces ;
Next the Dayroom he reaches the Diary to fill,
And records to make re his "quarter of drill "
 
Police Duties next for twice as long more,
How to deal with stray dogs, or a gunpowder store,
The way to take prints, hands and  to track
Or deal with a horse having sores on its back.
Some answers give plenty of food for reflection-
" The D.I. will find fault when he comes on inspection."
As the County remarked the last time he was here-
" The I.G. will inspect us within the New Year."
 
Reports and complaints, verbal, postal, and wires,
From a goat on the road to incendiary fires,
A boatman found drowned, or a milesman knocked down,
Or a cow that was lost by  a half drunken drover-
A lady's lost pug, or a child absent from school,
And frequent disputes on the coming Home Rule-
Attention to these is his lot night and morn,
Which they must  get promptly in sunshine or storm.
 
Then the constant returns and reports he must make,
And the " skelping " he'll get if he makes a mistake ;
" B, one," it is a form that's not too complicated,
Men's names and their rank and the pay at which rated.
And the " ten " it is easy, that goes undisputed-
The warrants on hands and the ones executed,
The medical changes, faith sometimes they're many-
Whether married or single, and children-if any.
 
The half years are wound up with accounting for stores,
From the tunics and frocks to the chains on the doors,
Old pants that men that men get every year as a bounty,
And those that we sent "other District of County."
The class of hotels and the cars that they keep,
With the number of dogs caught chasing of sheep,
All stamps that we got, and the way they're expended,
The amount still on hands as the quarter is ended.
 
The statistics of crime, oh! but those are the terror,
And in their compiling we oft make an error,
From the schoolboy who plunders for apples or pears,
To the man  who sells pirated copies of airs,
The burglar who enters your dwelling at night,
And the car with no lamp, when it should have a light,
The horse that had anthrax, the sheep with the scab.
And the jarvey found drunk when in charge of a cab.
 
And then in the night after calling the roll,
He must visit the boys who are out on patrol,
And take care that no noise or unseemly behaviour
Disturbs the repose of his fortunate neighbour.
Thus passes his time less in joy then in sorrow,
And little's the hope of a brighter to-morrow,
So varies his fate till released of its tension
By discharge from the Force with a parchment
 and pension.
 
 
                        Celbridge                                                       J.M.                        


Edited 3 times by ballyroughan Feb 26 16 11:57 PM.