(When a member of the Royal Irish Constabulary marries, he is immediately removed from the neighbourhood of his wife’s relations.)

Dear sir, when but a boy,
 When other joys proved unstable,
My leisure I’d employ
 By playing at being a constable.
Ere yet long years had rolled,
 ’Twas my pronounced ambition
To reach, when I grew old,
 That eminent position.

The charms with which it teemed
 Flashed on me in succession.
A constable’s I deemed
 The very best profession.
To run the wicked in
 To houses of correction,
And stoutly war with sin!
 It seemed to me perfection.

Those dreams of boyish days
 Ne’er reached their consummation.
Alas! in other ways
 I earn my daily ration.
MSS. I indite,
 Some solid, others snappier,
From morn till late at night
 You’re infinitely happier.

And now another fact
 My envy much increases.
You only, they enact,
 Shall know what perfect peace is.
For when you take a wife,
 Her relatives mayn’t trouble you.
That seems the Perfect Life.
 Yours truly,
       P. G. W.