company-monger,
Grows fat on the gain of the shares he has sold,
While the public gets lean, winning nothing but hunger
And a few scraps of scrip for its masses of gold;
When the fat man goes further and takes to religion,
A rascal in hymn-books and Bibles disguised,
"It's a case," says Sir Henry, "of rook _versus_ pigeon,
And the pigeon gets left--well, I'm hardly surprised."

There's a Heath at Newmarket, and horses that run there;
There are owners and jockeys, and sharpers and flats;
There are some who do nicely, and some who are done there;
There are loud men with pencils and satchels and hats.
But the stewards see nothing of betting or money,
As they stand in the blinkers for stewards devised;
Their blindness may strike Henry Hawkins as funny,
But he only smiles softly--he isn't surprised.

So here's to Sir Henry, the terror of tricksters,
Of law he's a master, and likewise a limb;
His mind never once, when its purpose is fixed, errs:
For cuteness there's none holds a candle to him.
Let them try to deceive him, why, bless you, he's _been_ there,
And can track his way straight through a tangle of lies;
And though some might grow gray at the things he has seen there,
He never, no, never, gives way to surprise.

By the courtesy of Sir Francis Burnand, who most kindly obtained
permission from Messrs. Bradbury and Agnew, I insert the following
poem, which appeared in a February number of _Punch_ in the year
1887:--

THE WOMAN AND THE LAW.

(A true story, told before Mr. Justice Hawkins at the recent Liverpool
Assizes--_vide Daily Telegraph_, February 8.)

In the criminal dock stood a woman alone,
To be judged for her crime, her one fault to repair,
And the man who gave evidence sat like a stone,
With a look of contempt for the woman's despair!
For the man was a husband, who'd ruined a life,
And broken a heart he had found without flaw;
He demanded the punishment due to the wife,
Who was only a Woman, whilst his was the Law!

A terrible silence then reigned in the Court,
And the eyes of humanity turned to the dock;
Her head was bent down, and her sobbing came short,
And the jailer stood ready, with hand on the lock
Of the gate of despair, that would open no more
When this wreckage of beauty was hurried away!
"Let me speak," moaned the woman--"my lord, I implore!"
"Yes, speak," said the Ju