IV

TO MARY HOUSEMAID, ON VALENTINE'S DAY

MARY, you know I've no love nonsense,
And though I pen on such a day,
I don't mean flirting, on my conscience,
Or writing in the courting way.

Though Beauty hasn't formed your feature,
It saves you p'rhaps from being vain,
And many a poor unhappy creature

May wish that she was half as plain.

Your virtues would not rise an inch,

Although your shape was two foot taller,

And wisely you let others pinch

Great waists and feet to make them smaller.

You never try to spare your hands

From getting red by household duty,

But doing all that it commands,

Their coarseness is a moral beauty.

Let Susan flourish her fair arms,
And at your old legs sneer and scoff,
But let her laugh, for you have charms
That nobody knows nothing of.

LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY

WELL hast thou cried, departed Burke,
All chivalrous romantic work

Is ended now and past!—

That iron age-which some have thought
Of metal rather overwrought-
Is now all overcast !

Ay! where are those heroic knights
Of old-those armadillo wights

Who wore the plated vest?—
Great Charlemagne and all his peers
Are cold--enjoying with their spears
An everlasting rest!

The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound;
So sleep his knights who gave that Round
Old Table such éclat !

Oh, Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!
And none engage at tourneys now
But those that go to law!

Grim John o' Gaunt is quite gone by,
And Guy is nothing but a Guy,
Orlando lies forlorn !-

Bold Sidney, and his kidney-nay,
Those "early champions "what are they
But "Knights without a morn"}

No Percy branch now perseveres,
Like those of old, in breaking spears-
The name is now a lie!

Surgeons, alone, by any chance,
Are all that ever couch a lance
To couch a body's eye!

Alas for Lion-Hearted Dick,
That cut the Moslems to the quick,
His weapon lies in peace:

Oh, it would warm them in a trice,
If they could only have a spice

Of his old mace in Greece !

The famed Rinaldo lies a-cold,
And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold,
That scaled the holy wall!

No Saracen meets Paladin,

We hear of no great Saladin,

But only grow the small!

Our Cressys, too, have dwindled since
To penny things—at our Black Prince
Historic pens would scoff:

The only one we moderns had

Was nothing but a Sandwich lad,
And measles took him off!

Where are those old and feudal clans, Their pikes, and bills, and partisans, Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs?

A battle was a battle then,

A breathing piece of work; but men

Fight now with powder puffs!

The curtal-axe is out of date;

The good old crossbrow bends-to Fate; 'Tis gone, the archer's craft!

No tough arm bends the springing yew, And jolly draymen ride, in lieu

Of Death, upon the shaft!

The spear, the gallant tilter's pride,
The rusty spear, is laid aside,-
Oh, spits now domineer !

The coat of mail is left alone,-
And where is all chain armour gone?
Go ask at Brighton Pier.

We fight in ropes, and not in lists,
Bestowing hand-cuffs with our fists,
A low and vulgar art !-

No mounted man is overthrown :
A tilt!—it is a thing unknown—
Except upon a cart!

Methinks I see the bounding barb,
Clad like his Chief in steely garb,

For warding steel's appliance! Methinks I hear the trumpet stir! 'Tis but the guard to Exeter,

That bugles the "Defiance"!

In cavils when will cavaliers

Set ringing helmets by the ears,

And scatter plumes about?

Or blood-if they are in the vein ?
That tap will never run again—

Alas! the Casque is out!

No iron-crackling now is scored
By dint of battle-axe or sword,
To find a vital place—

Though certain doctors still pretend,
Awhile, before they kill a friend,
To labour through his case.

Farewell, then, ancient men of might!
Crusader, errant squire, and knight !
Our coats and customs soften;
To rise would only make you weep-
Sleep on, in rusty-iron sleep,

As in a safety coffin !

PLAYING AT SOLDIERS

"Who'll serve the King?'

WHAT little urchin is there never
Hath had that early scarlet fever,
Of martial trappings caught?
Trappings well call'd-because they trap
And catch full many a country chap
To go where fields are fought!

What little urchin with a rag
Hath never made a little flag

(Our plate will show the manner),
And wooed each tiny neighbour still,
Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will,
To come beneath the banner!