A Tribute To The Policemen Of Englands Capital <br /> <br />Here in my cosy corner, <br /> Before a blazing log, <br />I’m thinking of cold London <br /> Wrapped in its killing fog; <br />And, like a shining beacon <br /> Above the picture grim, <br />I see the London ‘Bobby, ’ <br /> And sing my song for him. <br /> <br />I see his stalwart figure, <br /> I see his kindly face, <br />I hear his helpful answer <br /> At any hour or place. <br />For, though you seek some by-way <br /> Long miles from his own beat, <br />He tells you all about it, <br /> And how to find the street. <br /> <br />He looks like some bold Viking, <br /> This king of earth’s police – <br />Yet in his voice lies feeling, <br /> And in his eyes lies peace; <br />He knows and does his duty – <br /> (What higher praise is there?) <br />And London’s lords and paupers <br /> Alike receive his care. <br /> <br />He has a regal bearing, <br /> Yet one that breathes repose; <br />It is the look and manner <br /> Of one who thinks and knows. <br />Oh, men who govern nations, <br /> In old worlds or new, <br />Turn to the London ‘Bobby’ <br /> And learn a thing or two.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-london-bobby/
