DOI Heft:
February 13, 1892
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17693#0085
February 13, 1892.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
75
KIND INQUIRIES.
The Dean's Wife. "Is the dear Bishop still living?"
Episcopal Butler. "Oh yes, Ma'am. He's better to-day 1 We be all saying he's
going to Disappoint 'em yet !"
To the old easy tune without thought. "Gal-
lant sea-dogs and life-savers! " Yes!
But poor driblets of lyrical praise should not
be their sole guerdon, I guess.
On the coast, in the mine, at the fire, in the
dark city byeways at night,
They are ready the waves, or the flames, or
the bludgeoning burglar to light.
And are we quite as ready to mark, or to
fashion a fitting reward
For the coarsely-clad commonplace men who
our life and our property guard ?
A question Punch puts to the Public,'and on
your behalf, my brave lad,
And that of your labouring like. To accept
your stout help we are glad :
If supply of cheap heroes should slacken,
and life-saving valour grow dear—
Say as courts, party-statesmen, or churches
—'twould make some exchequers look
queer.
Do we quite do our part, we shore-goers?
Those lights could not flash through the
And how often must rescuer willing lie'idle
on land like a log
For lack of the warning of coast-wires* from
lighthouse or lightship ? 'Tis flat
That we, lad, have not done our duty, until
we have altered all that.
Well, you have done yours, and successfully,
this time at least, and at night.
All rescued How gladly the last must have
looked on that brave " Comet Light,"
As you put from the wave-battered wreck.
Cold, surf-buffeted, weary, and drenched,
Your pluck, like the glare from that beacon,
flamed on through the dark hours un-
quenched.
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 A ddresses.'')
[" 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 ?
When Pilch went a-slogging, and Clarke
Was a-studying slow underhand lobs ?
Hooray for that evergreen spark,
The veteran Guard, Moses Nobbs ! *
Why, Moses, thus bring to a close
Your fifty-six years on the road ?
Do vou yearn, after all, for repose,
Who with zeal half-a-century glowed ?
The Muse makes her moan at your loss,
And Sentiment silently sobs.
Time, friend, will play pitch-and-toss
With all of us, even a Nobbs !
* 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.
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 Boad has it shot ?
And do you remember the bard
Who gave us " The Tantinj Trot ? "
Mr. Egebton Wab.bitb.ton'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 Cbacknall, 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; [Nobbs !
And Punch drinks to your health, Moses
75
KIND INQUIRIES.
The Dean's Wife. "Is the dear Bishop still living?"
Episcopal Butler. "Oh yes, Ma'am. He's better to-day 1 We be all saying he's
going to Disappoint 'em yet !"
To the old easy tune without thought. "Gal-
lant sea-dogs and life-savers! " Yes!
But poor driblets of lyrical praise should not
be their sole guerdon, I guess.
On the coast, in the mine, at the fire, in the
dark city byeways at night,
They are ready the waves, or the flames, or
the bludgeoning burglar to light.
And are we quite as ready to mark, or to
fashion a fitting reward
For the coarsely-clad commonplace men who
our life and our property guard ?
A question Punch puts to the Public,'and on
your behalf, my brave lad,
And that of your labouring like. To accept
your stout help we are glad :
If supply of cheap heroes should slacken,
and life-saving valour grow dear—
Say as courts, party-statesmen, or churches
—'twould make some exchequers look
queer.
Do we quite do our part, we shore-goers?
Those lights could not flash through the
And how often must rescuer willing lie'idle
on land like a log
For lack of the warning of coast-wires* from
lighthouse or lightship ? 'Tis flat
That we, lad, have not done our duty, until
we have altered all that.
Well, you have done yours, and successfully,
this time at least, and at night.
All rescued How gladly the last must have
looked on that brave " Comet Light,"
As you put from the wave-battered wreck.
Cold, surf-buffeted, weary, and drenched,
Your pluck, like the glare from that beacon,
flamed on through the dark hours un-
quenched.
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 A ddresses.'')
[" 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 ?
When Pilch went a-slogging, and Clarke
Was a-studying slow underhand lobs ?
Hooray for that evergreen spark,
The veteran Guard, Moses Nobbs ! *
Why, Moses, thus bring to a close
Your fifty-six years on the road ?
Do vou yearn, after all, for repose,
Who with zeal half-a-century glowed ?
The Muse makes her moan at your loss,
And Sentiment silently sobs.
Time, friend, will play pitch-and-toss
With all of us, even a Nobbs !
* 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.
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 Boad has it shot ?
And do you remember the bard
Who gave us " The Tantinj Trot ? "
Mr. Egebton Wab.bitb.ton'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 Cbacknall, 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; [Nobbs !
And Punch drinks to your health, Moses