. The choice works of Thomas Hood, in prose and verse. andled, by the marble Apollo : but did impassioned damsel ever dote. THE LAST MAN. MOS and wither, beside the pedestal of this preposterous effigy? or rather,is not the unseemly emblem accountable for the coyness and pro-verbial reluctance of maidens to the approaches of Love ? I can beheve in his dwelhng alone in the heart—seeing that hemust occupy it to repletion ;—in his constancy, because he lookssedentary and not apt to roam. That he is given to melt—from hisgreat pinguitude. That he burneth with a flame, for so all fat burneth—and ha
. The choice works of Thomas Hood, in prose and verse. andled, by the marble Apollo : but did impassioned damsel ever dote. THE LAST MAN. MOS and wither, beside the pedestal of this preposterous effigy? or rather,is not the unseemly emblem accountable for the coyness and pro-verbial reluctance of maidens to the approaches of Love ? I can beheve in his dwelhng alone in the heart—seeing that hemust occupy it to repletion ;—in his constancy, because he lookssedentary and not apt to roam. That he is given to melt—from hisgreat pinguitude. That he burneth with a flame, for so all fat burneth—and hath languishings—like other bodies of his tonnage. That hesighs—from his size. 1 dispute not his kneeling at ladies feet—since it is the posture ofelephants,—nor his promise that the homage shall remain eternal. Idoubt not of his dying,—being of a corpulent habit, and a short neck.—Of his blindness—with that inflated pigs cheek. But for his lodgingin Belindas blue eye, my whole faith is heretic—/i?;- she fiath mver asty in it,. The Last Man. THE LAST MAN, TWAS in the year two thousand and one, A pleasant morning of May, I sit on the gallows-tree, all alone, A chaunting a merry lay,— To think how the pest had snared my life, To sing with the larks that day ! 106 THE LAST MANi When up the heath came a jolly knave^Like a scarecrow, all in rags :It made me crow to see his old dudsAll abroad in the wind, like flags :—So up he came to the timbers footAnd pitchd down his greasy bags. Good Lord ! how blythe the old beggar was I 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 wishd myself on the gallows again When I smelt that beggars food— A foul beef-bone and a mouldy crust; Oh ! quoth he, the heavens are good I* Then after this grace he cast him down : Says
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