Her heroes to get “on the cheap” from the rough rank and file of
          her sons
  Has been England’s good fortune so long, that the scribblers’
          swift tongue-babble runs
  To the old easy tune without thought.  “Gallant sea-dogs and
          life-savers!” Yes! 
  But poor driblets of lyrical praise should not be their sole
          guerdon, I guess.

  On the coast, in the mine, at the fire, in the dark city byeways
          at night,
  They are ready the waves, or the flames, or the bludgeoning
          burglar to fight. 
  And are we quite as ready to mark, or to fashion a fitting reward
  For the coarsely-clad commonplace men who our life and our
          property guard?

  A question Punch puts to the Public, and on your behalf, my
          brave lad,
  And that of your labouring like.  To accept your stout help we are
          glad: 
  If supply of cheap heroes should slacken, and life-saving valour
          grow dear—­
  Say as courts, party-statesmen, or churches—­’twould make some
          exchequers look queer.

  Do we quite do our part, we shore-goers?  Those lights could not
          flash through the fog,
  And how often must rescuer willing lie idle on land like a log
  For lack of the warning of coast-wires from lighthouse or
          lightship?  ’Tis flat
  That we, lad, have not done our duty, until we have altered all
          that.

  Well, you have done yours, and successfully, this time at least,
          and at night. 
  All rescued.  How gladly the last must have looked on that brave
          “Comet Light,”
  As you put from the wave-battered wreck.  Cold, surf-buffeted,
          weary, and drenched,
  Your pluck, like the glare from that beacon, flamed on through the
          dark hours unquenched.

  Nor then was your labour at end.  There was treasure to save and to
          land. 
  Well done, life-boat heroes, once more! Punch is proud to take
          grip of your hand! 
  Your QUEEN, ever quick to praise manhood, has spoken in words you
          will hail,
  And ’twere shame to the People of England, if they in their part
          were to fail.

* * * * *

THE LAST OF THE GUARDS.

A SONG OF SENTIMENT, TO THE TUNE OF “FAIR LADY ELIZABETH MUGG." ("REJECTED ADDRESSES.")

["The last of the old Mail-guards is about to disappear from the service of the Post Office.  Fifty-six years have elapsed since Mr. MOSES NOBBS—­for such is the venerable official’s name—­was selected to undertake the duties of Guard to one of the Royal Mails.”—­Daily Telegraph.]

  Historical Muse! are you sober?
    Is he, the old Mail-guard,