And then—best thing that he could do—
He book'd himself for Town;
They stopped at every station up,
Till he again got down.
Says GILPIN, "Sing, Long live the QUEEN,
And eke long life to me;
And ere I'll trust that Line again,
Myself I blest will see!"
ELEGY.
WRITTEN IN A RAIL WAY STATION.
PUNCH.
The Station clock proclaims the close of day;
The hard-worked clerks drop gladly off to tea;
The last train starts upon its dangerous way,
And leaves the place to darkness and to me.
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.