―――― THE LAST MAN. (_A Study after Campbell._) The Park has quite a sickly glare, The trees are brown as tan, The spectres of the season are Around that lonely man. His world has vanished――ah, ’tis hard, He cannot find a single card For party on the lawn, For picnic, flower show, or dance; To Greece, Spain, Italy, and France Or Cyprus they have gone. Sad and perplexed the lone one stood, And muttered with a sigh, “I have no friends by field or flood, By moor or mountain high. The opera’s over, Goodwood done, And sport with fishing-rod or gun Alone is very slow. Until the ‘Upper Ten’ appear, About the closing of the year, I know not where to go. “And wearily each moment flies, For stale amusements tire; An idle man’s in agonies When seasons thus expire. Belgravia is as still as death, And in Mayfair I hold my breath; Or on some absent host Make quite unnecessary calls; Or haply in familiar halls I linger like a ghost.” He sought the club――“Bring claret cup Oh, waiter, and with haste; Something to keep my spirits up In mercy let me taste. And if a pilgrim seeks the place Tell him the last swell of his race This afternoon hath trod, The squares, the drives, and Rotten Row, And met no single belle or beau To greet his listless nod.” _Funny Folks_, August 24, 1878. ――――:o:―――― THE SONG OF THE FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY. (The Earl of Ellenborough.) Ye mariners of England, I’ll thank you if you please, To come and tell me something of The service of the seas: I’ve something heard of horse marines But nothing do I know; Though a trip in a ship I to India once did go. If enemies oppose me, And say I’m very far From being what I ought to be, I’ll say that others are. So come, brave tars, and teach me A vessel for to know: If the heel is the keel―― Or abaft means down below. Then courage, all you admirals, And never be dismay’d, For I’m a bold adventurer, That never learnt my trade. Our ministers employ me To vote for them, you know; Then be bold, when you’re told That by interest things go. Then here’s a health to Wellington, Who made of me the choice; And to his worthy colleagues bold, Who scorn the public voice. Tell France and tell America They may begin to crow;―― While I reign o’er the main Is the time to strike a blow. _Punch_, January, 1846.