Then if you like a single horse, This age is quite a _cab-age_, A car not quite so small and light As those of our Queen _Mab_ age; The horses have been _broken well_, All danger is rescinded, For some have _broken both their knees_, And some are _broken winded_. If you’ve a friend at Chelsea end, The stages are worth knowing-- There is a sort, we call ’em short, Although the longest going-- For some will stop at Hatchett’s shop Till you grow faint and sicky, Perched up behind, at last to find Your dinner is all _dickey_! Long stages run from every yard; But if you’re wise and frugal, You’ll never go with any Guard That plays upon the bugle, “Ye banks and braes,” and other lays, And ditties everlasting, Like miners going all your way, With _boring_ and with _blasting_. Instead of _journeys_, people now May go upon a _Gurney_, With steam to do the horses’ work, By _powers of attorney_; Tho’ with a load it may explode, And you may all be _un_-done! And find you’re going _up to Heav’n_ Instead of _up to London_! To speak of every kind of coach, It is not my intention; But there is still one vehicle Deserves a little mention; The world a sage has call’d a stage, With all its living lumber, And Malthus swears it always bears Above the proper number. The law will transfer house or land For ever and a day hence, For lighter things, watch, brooches, rings, You’ll never want conveyance: Ho! stop the thief! my handkerchief! It is no sight for laughter-- Away it goes, and leaves my nose To join in running after. THE ANGLER’S FAREWELL. “Resign’d, I kissed the rod.” Well! I think it is time to put up! For it does not accord with my notions, Wrist, elbow, and chine, Stiff from throwing the line, To take nothing at last by my motions! I ground-bait my way as I go, And dip in at each watery dimple; But however I wish To inveigle the fish, To my _gentle_ they will not play _simple_! Though my float goes so swimmingly on, My bad luck never seems to diminish; It would seem that the Bream Must be scarce in the stream, And the _Chub_, tho’ it’s chubby, be _thinnish_! Not a Trout there can be in the place, Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention, And although at my hook With _attention_ I look, I can ne’er see my hook with _a Tench on_! At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape, But they seem upon different terms now; Have they taken advice Of the “_Council of Nice_,” And rejected their “_Diet of Worms_,” now?