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