weary, and drenched,
Your pluck, like the glare from that beacon, flamed on through the
dark hours unquenched.

Nor then was your labour at end. There was treasure to save and to
land.
Well done, life-boat heroes, once more! _Punch_ is proud to take
grip of your hand!
Your QUEEN, ever quick to praise manhood, has spoken in words you
will hail,
And 'twere shame to the People of England, if they in their part
were to fail.

* * * * *

THE LAST OF THE GUARDS.

_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?