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.]

* * * * *

[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!”]

* * * * *

CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

IV.—­THE DUFFER AS COLLECTOR.