As the worn show-horse whom Ducrow so long Has taught to prance before the applauding throng, Now all unfit to play his wonted part, Turns the dull mill or tracts the ignoble cart; If, midst his daily toils, perchance he hears Great Wombell’s trumpets, and the attendant cheers, Strives from his rear the cumbrous load to fling, And longs to circle in his ancient ring―― So I, when loud your festive laughter swells, Would gladly don once more my cap and bells, So sad it is to deem my triumphs past, And think these joyous plaudits are my last. Warned by some symptoms of a certain age, To-night a veteran quits the mirthful stage; A certain age a certain post requires―― Not prematurely Robertson retires. At eight-and-forty, when the locks are grey, ’Tis time to doff one’s comedy array, And leave, while youth’s excesses we retrench, Some space between the banquet and the Bench. Time was, when even the rigid and the wise Might scan my levities with lenient eyes; Cast in a mould denied to other men―― (Great Jove will hardly use it soon again)―― If not with wit, at least with words at will, The wish to please――and, shall I say, the skill? Peers, parsons, players, applauded as I spoke, And Huntly loved, and Scott endured the joke. Each look would set the table in a roar: And when the look was grave, men laughed the more. Hard task! and how performed, Jove best can tell, To serve two masters, and to serve them well; For Momus can with Mammon ill agree, And jealous Themis hates Euphrosyne. But, now, farewell the mimic look and tone, The general question, and the big trombone That makes the orchestra nothing――Oh! farewell To Oscar’s melody and Ossian’s shell; The stammering cornet, the Italian air; Farewell the bagman, and farewell the beer; Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious fun, Farewell――for Peter’s occupation’s done. Yet still the fire, that burned too fierce before, May shed a chastened light your evenings o’er; Sometimes the mountain may bring forth its mouse To please the laughers in the Outer-House. Nay, even in yonder niche installed on high, Some jest or pun Lord Peter may let fly, Clerk, counsel, agents, mid the weekly roll, Shall vainly strive their muscles to control; Wide spreads the infectious laugh, and even a while The losing litigant consents to smile; * * * * * All but the macer, grieved to see no more The classic gravity that Corehouse wore.