A country friend of ours has "drop ped into poetry" and has sent us the following " pome" for insertion in our " valuable columns." The " spring poet" resides in a village not a hundred miles from Golden Bay, and has evi dently a soul possessed with an ardent desire to suppress an existing local "social evil." Here Is his "tale of woe":— Who walks the road from year to year And looks upon us with a leer, But doesn't object to a pint of beer— Our Bobby. Who at eleven o'clock is always about To see that all the lights are out, And that lodgers for their friends dont shout— Our Bobby. Who thought at one time to cut a caper Under the cover of the census paper, And may have got home but for a certain draper— Our Bobby. Who went up to a certain Mill, To see if the men any pigeons did kill ; And if that was so, to give them a pill Our Bobby. Who tied his horse to a straining post And was only away a hour at most, But in the meantime the horse seen a Ghost— Our Bobby. Away went the horse with a terrble crash And kicked the sulky all to smash, Which cost some pounds to Mr Our Bobby. Who followed the sportsmen on their track ' And took tho trouble to open the sack But found it filled with something black— Our Bobby. Who is it that is always sneaking around, To try and get some poor devil found, At this I think he is quite renowned — Our Bobby. If perchance you should return a gag At the head of the local would-be wag You see at once, like a bit of wet rag Our Bobby. Who is the most officious man Of all the bloated blue-coat clan Why the chap with a foot like a frying pan — Our Bobby.
