XI.

Ah, where thy legs—­that witty pair! 
For “great wits jump”—­and so did they! 
Lord! how they leap’d in lamplight air! 
Caper’d—­and bounc’d—­and strode away!—­
That years should tame the legs—­alack! 
I’ve seen spring thro’ an Almanack!

XII.

But bounds will have their bound—­the shocks
Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes;
And those that frisk’d in silken clocks
May look to limp in fleecy hose—­
One only—­(Champion of the ring)
Could ever make his Winter,—­Spring!

XIII.

And gout, that owns no odds between
The toe of Czar and toe of Clown,
Will visit—­but I did not mean
To moralize, though I am grown
Thus sad,—­Thy going seem’d to beat
A muffled drum for Fun’s retreat!

XIV.

And, may be—­’tis no time to smother
A sigh, when two prime wags of London
Are gone—­thou, Joseph, one,—­the other
A Joe!—­“sic transit gloria Munden!”
A third departure some insist on,—­
Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston!—­

XV.

Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep
With ancient “Dozey” to the dregs—­
Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep,
And put a hatchment o’er her eggs! 
Let Farley weep—­for Magic’s man
Is gone,—­his Christmas Caliban!

XVI.

Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain,
As tho’ they walk’d behind thy bier,—­
For since thou wilt not play again,
What matters,—­if in heav’n or here! 
Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!—­
There’s Quick might just as well be dead!

XVII.

Oh, how will thy departure cloud
The lamplight of the little breast! 
The Christmas child will grieve aloud
To miss his broadest friend and best,—­
Poor urchin! what avails to him
The cold New Monthly’s Ghost of Grimm?

XVIII.

For who like thee could ever stride! 
Some dozen paces to the mile!—­
The motley, medley coach provide—­
Or like Joe Frankenstein compile
The vegetable man complete!—­
A proper Covent Garden feat!

XIX.

Oh, who like thee could ever drink,
Or eat,—­swill, swallow—­bolt—­and choke! 
Nod, weep, and hiccup—­sneeze and wink?—­
Thy very yawn was quite a joke! 
Tho’ Joseph, Junior, acts not ill,
“There’s no Fool like the old Fool” still!

XX.

Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe! 
We met with mirth,—­we part in pain! 
For many a long, long year must go
Ere Fun can see thy like again—­
For Nature does not keep great stores
Of perfect Clowns—­that are not Boors!