_A SONG OF SENTIMENT, TO THE TUNE OF "FAIR LADY ELIZABETH MUGG."_
(_"REJECTED ADDRESSES."_)
["The last of the old Mail-guards is about to disappear from
the service of the Post Office. Fifty-six years have elapsed
since Mr. MOSES NOBBS--for such is the venerable official's
name--was selected to undertake the duties of Guard to one of
the Royal Mails."--_Daily Telegraph_.]
Historical Muse! are you sober?
_Is_ he, the old Mail-guard, alive,
Who probably swigged sound October
From flagons, in One, Eight, Three, Five?
When PILCH went a-slogging, and CLARKE
Was a-studying slow underhand lobs?
Hooray for that evergreen spark,
The veteran Guard, MOSES NOBBS![1]
Why, MOSES, thus bring to a close
Your fifty-six years on the road?
Do you yearn, after all, for repose,
Who with zeal half-a-century glowed?
The Muse makes her moan at your loss,
And Sentiment silently sobs.
Ah! Time, friend, will play pitch-and-toss
With all of us, even a NOBBS!
One sees your Mail-Coach all a-blaze,
A masterly hand on the rein,
In those rollicking, railway-less days,
Which never shall greet us again.
That tootling tin-horn one can hear;
The old buffers, with breeches and fobs,
One can picture; they doubtless were dear
To the bosom of brave MOSES NOBBS.
That blunderbuss, too! Good old Guard!
At what Knight of the Road has it shot?
And do you remember the bard
Who gave us "_The Tantivy Trot_?"
Mr. EGERTON WARBURTON's gone,
No longer the Highwayman robs;
And silence now settles upon
The Last of the Guards--MOSES NOBBS!
Yet oblivion shall not descend
On that name till a stave hath been sung.
The Muse is antiquity's friend,
And in praise of the past will give tongue.
If CRACKNALL, the Tantivy Whip,
Claimed song, they're but _parvenu_ snobs
Who say that the lyre should let slip
The memory of stout MOSES NOBBS.
The Mail-Coach, my NOBBS, is no more
What it was when you put on the man;
We've Mail Trains, all rattle and roar,
And that portent, the Packet Post Van.
A Pullman, and not the Box-seat,
Is the aim of our modern Lord BOBS;
But the old recollections are sweet;
And _Punch_ drinks to your health, MOSES NOBBS!
[Footnote 1: The _Telegraph_ gives the gentleman's name both as
"NOBBS" and "NOGGS." As "NOBBS" comes first, _Mr. Punch_ adopts it, he
hopes without misnaming the illustrious veteran.]
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[Illustration: KIND INQUIRIES.
_The Dean's Wife._ "IS THE DEAR BISHOP STILL LIVING?"
_Episcopal Butler._ "OH YES, MA'AM. HE'S _BETTER_ TO-DAY! WE'RE ALL
SAYING HE'S GOING TO DISAPPOINT 'EM _YET_!"]
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