PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 107.
December 1, 1894.
ICHABOD.
As over London Bridge I wentA constable I spied:His head upon his breast was bent,Against the parapet he leant,He gazed upon the stream intent,And as I passed he sighed.
"What ails thee, officer?" I criedIn sympathetic tone."What sorrow in thy soul is bred?Nay, never shake thy mournful head,But tell me of thy woes instead—Thou shalt not weep alone."
He eyed me for a moment's spaceIn half-suspicious doubt;But reading not a single traceOf aught but pity in my face,He told me of his hapless caseAnd poured his sorrows out.
"Time was, not many months ago"—His voice began to quiver—"When, in a stately march and slow,The tide of traffic used to flowIn floods as full as that below"—He pointed to the river.
"From early dawn to dewy nightIt still blocked up the way:The creaking wain, the hansom light,The gaudy bus, in colours bright,The gilded coach, the buggy slight,And e'en the donkey-shay.
"Amid the throng I took my stand,I watched them come and go.Anon the serried lines I scanned,Anon I raised a warning hand,And lo! at my supreme commandThe flood forgot to flow!
"The bus, the cab, the coach, the fly,Were motionless and still.In all the crowds that passed me byWas no one of degree so highThat dared my sovereignty defy,Or disobey my will.
"The hansom hasting on her wayPaused when she heard my call.The coster checked his donkey-shay,The gartered lord his prancing bay—All, all were subject to my sway,My word was law to all.
"Alas! alas! 'tis thus no more!Gone is my pride and power!Where thousands passed in days of yoreAcross the bridge, we've scarce a score,For now the tides of traffic pourRound by the busy Tower.
"And I am left to mourn aloneThe glories that are fled.None heed me now—alas! not one!My life is lived! my day is done!Othello's occupation's gone—Ah! would that I were dead!"
He ceased. The manly voice broke down.I
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