Now fades the panting engine's red tail-light, And all the platform solemn stillness holds, Save where the watchmen, pacing for the night, By smothered coughs announce their several colds. Behind that door of three-inch planking made, Those frosted panes placed too high up to peep, All in their iron safes securely laid, The cooked account-books of the Railway sleep. The Debts to credit side so neatly borne, What should be losses, profits proved instead; The Dividends those pages that adorn No more shall turn the fond Shareholder's head. Oft did the doubtful to their balance yield, Their evidence arithmetic could choke: How jocund were they that to them appealed! How many votes of thanks did they provoke! Let not Derision mock KING HUDSON'S toil, Who made things pleasant greenhorns to allure; Nor prudery give hard names unto the spoil 'Twas glad to share--while it could share secure. All know the way that he his fortune made, How he bought votes and consciences did hire; How hands that Gold and Silver-sticks have swayed To grasp his dirty palm would oft aspire, Till these accounts at last their doctored page, Thanks to mischance and panic, did unroll, When virtue suddenly became the rage, And wiped George Hudson out of fashion's scroll. Full many a noble Lord who once serene The feasts at Albert Gate was glad to share, For tricks he blushed not at, or blushed unseen, Now cuts the Iron King with vacant stare. For those who, mindful of their money fled, Rejoice in retribution, sure though late-- Should they, by ruin to reflection led, Ask PUNCH to point the moral of his fate, Haply that wooden-headed sage may say, "Oft have I seen him, in his fortune's dawn, When at his levees elbowing their way, Peer's ermine might be seen and Bishop's lawn. "There the great man vouchsafed in turn to each Advice, what scrip or shares 'twas best to buy, There his own arts his favorites he would teach, And put them up to good things on the sly. "Till to the House by his admirers borne, Warmed with Champagne in flustered speech he strove, And on through commerce, colonies, and corn, Like engine, without break or driver, drove. "Till when he ceased to dip in fortune's till, Out came one cooked account--of our M. P.; Another came--yet men scarce ventured, still, To think their idol such a rogue could be. "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; When he won foully he did freely spend. He plundered no one knows how much a-year, But Chancery o'ertook him in the end.