THE LAST HORSED‘ BUS

Fare thee well, thou plum-faced driver,

Poised upon thine airy seat!

Final, ultimate survivor

Of an order obsolete!

Fare thee well! Thy days are numbered.

Long, full long, by weight encumbered,

Tardily thy team hath lumbered

Down each London Street,

Passed by carts, bath-chairs, and hearses,

And the cause of constant curses!

Fare thee well, conductor sprightly,

Gay and buoyant pachyderm,

Holding up thy‘ bus politely

For each passenger infirm;

Yet, when roused to indignation

By a rival's reprobation,

How adroit in the creation

Of some caustic term!

Deft to ridicule or rally,

Swift with satire as with sally!

Ancient Omnibus ungainly,

We shall miss thee, day by day,

When thy swift successors vainly

We with signals would delay;

When upon their platforms perching,

With each oscillation lurching,

We are perilously searching

For the safest way

To alight without disaster,

While we speed each moment faster!

As our means of locomotion,

Year by year, more deadly grow,

We shall think with fond devotion

Of thy stately gait and slow.

Harassed, vexed, fatigued, and flurried,

Shaken, discomposed, and worried,

As in motors we are hurried

Wildly to and fro,

We perchance shall not disparage

Horse-drawn omnibus or carriage!