“Good sir, the boat has lost her trim, You must not sit a-lee!” With smiling face, and courteous grace, The middle seat took he. But still, by constant quiet growth, His back became so wide, Each neighbour wight, to left and right, Was thrust against the side. Lord! how they chided with themselves, That they had let him in; To see him grow so monstrous now, That came so small and thin. On every brow a dew-drop stood, They grew so scared and hot,-- “I’ the name of all that’s great and tall, Who are ye, sir, and what?” Loud laugh’d the Gogmagog, a laugh As loud as giant’s roar-- “When first I came, my proper name Was Little--now I’m _Moore_!” “THE LAST MAN.” ’Twas in the year two thousand and one, A pleasant morning of May, I sat on the gallows-tree all alone, A-chanting a merry lay,-- To think how the pest had spared my life, To sing with the larks that day! When up the heath came a jolly knave, Like a scarecrow, all in rags: It made me crow to see his old duds All abroad in the wind, like flags:-- So up he came to the timbers’ foot And pitch’d down his greasy bags.-- Good Lord! how blithe the old beggar was! At pulling out his scraps,-- The very sight of his broken orts Made a work in his wrinkled chaps: “Come down,” says he, “you Newgate-bird, And have a taste of my snaps!”---- Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast, I slided, and by him stood; But I wished myself on the gallows again When I smelt that beggar’s food, A foul beef-bone and a mouldy crust; “Oh!” quoth he, “the heavens are good!” Then after this grace he cast him down: Says I, “You’ll get sweeter air A pace or two off, on the windward side,” For the felons’ bones lay there. But he only laugh’d at the empty skulls, And offered them part of his fare. “I never harm’d _them_, and they won’t harm me: Let the proud and the rich be cravens!” I did not like that strange beggar man, He look’d so up at the heavens. Anon he shook out his empty old poke; “There’s the crumbs,” saith he, “for the ravens!” It made me angry to see his face, It had such a jesting look; But while I made up my mind to speak, A small case-bottle he took: Quoth he, “though I gather the green water-cress My drink is not of the brook!” Full manners-like he tender’d the dram; Oh, it came of a dainty cask! But, whenever it came to his turn to pull, “Your leave, good Sir, I must ask; But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve, When a hangman sups at my flask!” And then he laugh’d so loudly and long, The churl was quite out of breath; I thought the very Old One was come To mock me before my death, And wish’d I had buried the dead men’s bones That were lying about the heath!