“Until those figures set in sad array Proved how his victims he had fleeced and shorn―― Approach and read (if thou canst read) my lay, Writ on him more in sadness than in scorn.” THE EPITAPH. Here lies, the gilt rubbed off his sordid earth, A man whom Fortune made to Fashion known; Though void alike of breeding, parts, or birth, God Mammon early marked him for his own. Large was his fortune, but he bought it dear; What he won foully he did freely spend. He plundered no one knows how much a year, But Chancery o’ertook him in the end. No further seek his frailties to disclose: For many, of his sins, should share the load: While he kept rising, who asked how he rose? While we could reap, what cared we how he sowed? _Punch._ February 26, 1853. ――――:o:―――― ELEGY. _Written near a Suburban Station House._ _By a Ticket-of-Leave-Man._ The muffin-bell proclaims the parting day, The City clerks wind, weary, to their tea, The Crusher cookwards plods his steady way, And leaves the streets to Bill Sykes and to me. Now far and wide there’s not a Blue in sight, Like harmless loungers, safe our watch we hold, Save that we grasp the life-preserver tight, And the garotte arrange in artful fold. Meanwhile from yonder station-house the snore Of sleeping Crushers makes it very plain, That Blues who snooze when they the streets should scour, Will ne’er molest our solitary reign. Within those well-warmed rooms Inspectors paid Out of the parish rates the peace to keep, Each in his watch-coat warm and snugly laid―― The mild protectors of the public――sleep. The choking call of passengers forlorn, With the garotte twitch’d dext’rous o’er their heads, Cries of “Police!” and “Murder!” faintly borne, No more will rouse them from their cosy beds. For them at morn no pompous beak shall turn To the charge-sheet made out so neat and square, No prisoner nabb’d shall swell the night’s return, Or grace the hand-cuffs o’er the Inspector’s chair. Oft did the cook-maid to their flatt’ries yield, Their fast how oft the rabbit-pie hath broke; How many an area’s been their triumph’s field, How much cold meat fall’n ’neath their sturdy stroke! Let not harsh censure mock their nightly toil, Their stolen chats and area conquests sure; Nor RICHARD MAYNE with too much strictness spoil The short and simple suppers they procure. Nor you, householders, fix on them the fault, If no cold joint e’er lasts its second day, While through the cupboard-shelf and pantry-vault The hungry household cat is free to stray. Can mild reproof, or anger’s hasty gust Back to its dish the rabbit-pie restore? Can master’s threats recall the flaky crust, Or wipe the mopped-up beer from off the score?