Do you yearn, after all, for repose,
Who with zeal half-a-century glowed?
The Muse makes her moan at your loss,
And Sentiment silently sobs.
Ah! Time, friend, will play pitch-and-toss
With all of us, even a NOBBS!
One sees your Mail-Coach all a-blaze,
A masterly hand on the rein,
In those rollicking, railway-less days,
Which never shall greet us again.