AN APOLOGY TO THE BENCH.

_Humbly addressed to T.E.S._

If ever, where you hold the Seat of Doom,
I stand, my Lord, before you at the Bar,
And my forensic fame, a virgin bloom,
Lies in your awful hands to make or mar,
Let it not prejudice my case, I pray,
If you should call to mind a previous meeting
When on a champion course the other day
I gave your Lordship four strokes and a beating.

I own it savoured of contempt of court,
Hinted of disrespect toward the Bench,
That I should chuckle when your pitch was short
Or smile to see you in the sanded trench;
But Golf (so I extenuate my sin)
Brings all men level, like the greens they putt on;
One common bunker makes the whole world kin,
And Bar may scrap with Beak, and I with SCR-TT-N.

Nor did I give myself superior airs;
I made allowance for defective sight;
"The bandage which impartial Justice wears
Leaves you," I said, "a stranger to the light;
Habituated to the sword and scales,
If you commit some pardonable blunder,
If" (I remarked) "your nerve at moments fails