The last Stage of the last State Lottery.

[Enlarged illustration] (400 kB).

A Ballad, 1826.

A lazy sot grew sober
By looking at his troubles,
For he found out how
He work’d his woe,
By playing with Lott’ry bubbles.

And just before October,
The grand contractors, zealous
To share their last ills,
With puffs and bills,
Drove all the quack-doctors jealous.

Their bill-and-cue-carts slowly
Paced Holborn and Long Acre,
Like a funeral
Not mourn’d at all,
The bury’ng an undertaker.

Clerks smiled, and whisper’d lowly:
“This is the time or never
There must be a rise—
Buy, and be wise,
Or your chance is gone for ever.”

Yet, of the shares and tickets,
Spite of all arts to sell ’em,
There were more unsold
Than dare be told;
Although, if I knew, I’d tell ’em.

And so, worn out with rickets,
The last “Last Lott’ry” expired;
And then there were cries—
“We’ve gained a prize
By the loss we’ve so long desired: