But, Joseph—everybody’s Joe!—
Is gone—and grieve I will and must!
As Hamlet did for Yorick, so
Will I for thee (though not yet dust),
And talk as he did when he miss’d
The kissing-crust that he had kiss’d!
Ah, where is now thy rolling head!
Thy winking, reeling, drunken eyes,
(As old Catullus would have said,)
Thy oven-mouth, that swallow’d pies—
Enormous hunger—monstrous drouth!—
Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth!
Ah, where thy ears, so often cuff’d!—
Thy funny, flapping, filching hands!—
Thy partridge body, always stuff’d
With waifs, and strays, and contrabands!—
Thy foot—like Berkeley’s Foote—for why?
’Twas often made to wipe an eye!
Ah, where thy legs—that witty pair!
For “great wits jump”—and so did they!
Lord! how they leap’d in lamplight air!
Caper’d—and bounced—and strode away!—
That years should tame the legs—alack!
I’ve seen spring through an Almanack!
But bounds will have their bound—the shocks
Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes;
And those that frisk’d in silken clocks
May look to limp in fleecy hose—
One only—(Champion of the ring)
Could ever make his Winter—Spring!
And gout, that owns no odds between
The toe of Czar and toe of Clown,
Will visit—but I did not mean
To moralize, though I am grown
Thus sad,—Thy going seem’d to beat
A muffled drum for Fun’s retreat!
And, may be—’tis no time to smother
A sigh, when two prime wags of London
Are gone—thou, Joseph, one,—the other,
A Joe!—“sic transit gloria Munden!”
A third departure some insist on,—
Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston!—
Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep
With ancient “Dozey” to the dregs,—
Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep,
And put a hatchment o’er her eggs!
Let Farley weep—for Magic’s man
Is gone—his Christmas Caliban!
Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain,
As though they walk’d behind thy bier,—
For since thou wilt not play again,
What matters,—if in heav’n or here!
Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!—
There’s Quick might just as well be dead!
Oh, how will thy departure cloud
The lamplight of the little breast!
The Christmas child will grieve aloud
To miss his broadest friend and best,—
Poor urchin! what avails to him
The cold New Monthly’s Ghost of Grimm?