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?"