While The Billy BoilsSearch|I walked about in Wynyard SquareAt 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 blestThat peeler's lot must be.
I noted well his martial air,And settled that of courseHe 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 headHe towered like a mast;His voice, to match that stately tread,Should shame a trumpet-blast!
I pondered on the matter muchAnd thought I'd like to beEscorted to the "dock" by suchA demi-god as he.
I gazed upon his form entranced—He never noticed me,For visions through his fancy dancedOf 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 handInside the kitchen door.
Ensconced in some snug vantage-coignAt ease he'd stretch each limb,And feast on cutlet and sirloin,Purloined for love of him.
I leant against a scaffold-beam—I must have had a napI think, because I had a dream—I dreamt I was a 'trap'!
I thought I had allegiance swornAnd that there was for meThe regulation tile that's wornBy every trap you see;
The coat and thingumbobs as well,What joy could equal this?No Gillott's patent pens could tellMy wild ecstatic bliss!
I thought they portioned out my beat—A foot I'm sure I grew,And as I walked up Hunter StreetI felt a match for two.
I felt my bosom throb behindMy coat of azure blue,And trembled for the peace of mindOf every girl I knew.
I saw myself in future fightsThe populace enthrall,While brightly blaze the city lightsI 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 skillRequites him for his sin,In such a hand as mine it willAbraise his rebel skin.
I thought of each bush-ranging chap,And for a moment sighedThat I was not a mounted trapThrough tea-tree scrub to ride.
But soon the notion I dismiss,For I can plainly seeThat such a line of life as thisMuch harder lines would be.
Beneath a bushel in the bushMy shining light to hide,I felt would be a gross misuseOf Sydney's hope and pride.
My look alone would petrifyA breaker of the peace,And where I turned my searching eyeDishonesty would cease.
Police reports my name should state,Each deed of mine should beA deed for traps to emulate,And try to be like me.
My blushing honours should be wornWith unobtrusive grace,And energy and zeal adornMy calm heroic face.
My beat was not in nasty slumsWhere vulgar rowdies meet;But see! the conquering hero comes—The pride of George's Street!
I thought he'd be a hardy boyWho'd shout in accents coarse"Who stole the mutton-pie, ahoy!"Now I was in the force.
Or should a cabby ere presumeTo overcharge a fare,My eagle glance it would consumeThat cabby then and there.
Now mercy light on yonder boyWho 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 repairHe 'll have to use a crutch.
His form, though supple as an eel,His mother wouldn't knowAgain if I'd a chance to dealOne stiffening truncheon blow!
No more his little idle handsWill scatter orange peelWhen 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 sweetAs soon as it got dark.
I spotted out each servant galI'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 backWhere I, unseen, by vulgar boors,Could go and have a "snack."
Fond, foolish women, at my feetIn 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 planAmbition couldn't crave—I was a trap!—each common manSeemed 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 fledWhen his infernal truncheon raisedA blister on my head.
Sometimes at midnight's solemn hourI 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 againThe 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!