THE GREEN BAG
IO THE
LAWYER'S PATRON By Lewis M. Miller
On Albion's shore, In the mythical days of long, long ago, When everything happened that's worth while to know, Dwelt a wonderful lawyer, learned and wise. He was wont to pore Every day, o'er and o'er His ponderous volumes of black-letter lore. And he learned by heart, From his calf-bound books, All his misty-cal art, With its hooks and its crooks, Its ins and its outs, its crannies and nooks. Though so skillful and wise In every device, He never descended to artful pretense; And his bosom the while Was as free from all guile, As that of the babe of a century hence. No widow he'd wronged; no orphan betrayed; No heir had be robbed of his lawful estate; No criminal shielded from punishment due; Nor taken a pound for a shilling or two. Yea, a model man, in his townsmen's eyes, Was this wonderful lawyer so learned and wise. But there's naught in this world that conceals not a flaw, And 'twas so with the life of this man of the law. 'Twas no common affliction that made him complain, Not a twinge of the gout, nor a plebeian pain : He was deeply distressed and redoubled his plaints, When he thought that, among the whole number of saints, His profession had none upon whom to rely, When assistance was needed or danger was nigh. 'Twas a very hard case, Yea, a downright disgrace, That the lawyer should have no attorney in heaven. Every other profession Enjoyed intercession From its saints, sometimes five, six, or seven. E'en the lowliest cobbler that handled an awl, On St. Crispin for needed assistance might call.
SAINT
He was sorely perplexed, Not to say somewhat vexed, Till he thought of a plan full of promise and hope: He would hasten away, Without stop or delay, And would lay his sad case 'fore His Reverence, the Pope. For he thought that the Pope would heed his complaints And assign his profession at least one of these saints, That have little to do, But to pass in review 'Round the throne with a hymn and a palmbranch or two. So at once he set forth, nor tarried for sleep; He traversed the land and he sailed o'er the deep. Like .(Eneas of old, who once too set his sail For Italia's shore, he encountered a gale. By the waves of the sea he was tumbled about, Till his outside seemed in and his inside seemed out. He wished himself home With his leather-bound tome, A treatise on real estate, certain and fixed, Not unstable as water and dreadfully mixed. He at last did arrive, Rather dead than alive, In the city of Caesar, and Virgil, and those. Never stopping for lunch, Or e'en crackers to munch, He went straight for the Pope without changhis clothes. The Pope heard his case from beginning to end. "My son," he replied, " little aid can I lend, For the saints all have prior engagements to fill; But your case is so hard, what I can do I will." When this he had said, The lawyer he led, Blindfolded with care, to a church near at hand, Where, in long solemn rows, Stood the statues of those Who'd been turned into saints by the sword and the brand.
