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!”