University of Virginia Library

That juries are like brooms, I trow,
Is not so very hard to shew:—
Pray doth not Betty with her broom
Sweep dirt and dust from every room,
And tho' the floors are trod by many;
Will keep them clean as any penny:
But should the wench a slattern prove,
Not willing all the dirt to move,
She heaps it in a corner sly,
And hides it snug from ev'ry eye;
Where with the broom 'tis cover'd over,
No mortal can the fraud discover.
So a grand jury's but a bosom,
Which judges use as it may please 'em
To sweep poor rogues and felons great
From all the precincts of the state;
Or else to cover o'er a flaw
From the sharp notice of the law.
Further, should Dick, with saucy tongue,
Do madam Betty any wrong,
She lays the broom-stick o'er his back,
'Till one or t'other's sure to crack:
So should a base plebeian censure
The conduct of the learned bench, or
Laugh at their worships of the quorum,
The culprit soon is brought before 'em;
When by the means of broom-stick jury
Their honours vent their rage and fury;
And by instructive bonds and fetters
Teach him to reverence his betters.
But should this seem too round-about
To make a real likeness out,
With your good leave, I'll try again,
And make the matter still more plain.

Doubtless you've often heard it told,
Or may have read in stories old—
A witch, when she would take an airing,
Hath neither coach, or chaise, or chair, in
Which she can with convenience ride,
But on a broom-stick sits astride:
Thus mounted, she thro' wind and weather
Will scud away, like any feather:
And so by means of blasts and breezes
Will any mischief do she pleases.
Now the broom-stick, it is well known,
Hath no such virtue of its own,
Nor can it do or harm or good
More than another stick of wood,
Until 'tis warm'd by magic breech
Of pow'rful super straddling witch.
So jurymen, plac'd side by side,
Are sticks whereon the judges ride;
But have no pow'r to speak or budge
Until inspir'd by tail of judge.
For when his honour's fairly seated,
The bench will thereby soon be heated,
Conveying sympathetic fury,
From tail of judge to head of jury:
Who, tho' they torpid stood before,
And dead as any nail in door,
Are animated to obey
Whate'er their honours please to say;
And ignoramus, or true bill, find
According to the judge's mind.

So necromancers raise the devil
To answer questions good or evil.

But should his honour raise bum-fiddle,
The charm would break off in the middle,
And jurymen be left of course
In former plight, if not much worse.

A feather thus, by learn'd instructor,
Fix'd nicely on the prime conductor,
Will swell its plumage in a minute,
And start as if the devil was in it:
But let the electric spark be drawn,
And all its animation's gone.

Of juries 'tis a known law canon,
The judge is causa sine qua non:
And this must be what Adrian means,
In saying they are MERE MACHINES.