Oh! well may poets make a fuss My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades-my eyes detest LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY. WELL hast thou cried, departed Burke, Is ended now and past!— That iron age-which some have thought Ay-where are those heroic knights Who wore the plated vest,- The bold king Arthur sleepeth sound, Oh, Time has plucked the plumy brow! Grim John o'Gaunt is quite gone by, Bold Sidney, and his kidney-nay, No Percy branch now perseveres Surgeons, alone, by any chance, Alas for Lion-Hearted Dick! Ob, it would warm them in a trice, Of his old mace in Greece.! The famed Rinaldo lies a-cold, No Saracen meets Paladin, We hear of no great Saladin, But only grow the small! Our Cressys too have dwindled since The only one we moderns had, 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 The curtal-axe is out of date!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 cross-bow bends-to Fate, 'Tis gone-the archer's craft! No tough arm bends the springing yew, And jolly draymen ride, in lieu The spear—the gallant tilter's pride, Oh, spits now domineer! The coat of mail is left alone,— We fight in ropes, and not in lists, No mounted man is overthrown: Methinks I see the bounding barb, 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 And scatter plumes about? No iron-crackling now is scored Though certain doctors still pretend, To labour through his case! Farewell then ancient men of might! Crusader, errant-squire, and knight! Our coats and custom soften, To rise would only make you weep— As in a safety coffin! THE GREEN MAN. TOM SIMPSON was as nice a kind of man Or play French horns like Mr. Rogers- The Gentleman did like a drop too much, And took more Port than was exactly portable. Once in the company of merry mates, Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him! With many a circumbendibus to spare, For instance, twice round Finsbury Square, To use a fitting phrase, he wound his way. Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter, And all the nerves-(and sparrows)—in a twitter, Till settled by the sober Chinese cup: The hands, o'er all are members that make motions, And Simpson just was ready to go through it, When lo! the first short glimpse within the glass He jumped-and who alive would fail to do it? One section of his face as green as grass ! With soap-without-wet-hot or cold-or dry, What could have happened to a tint so ruddy? By way of penalty for being jolly, To have that evergreen stuck in his face, "All claret marks,"-thought he-Tom knew his forte "Are red-this colour CANNOT come from Port!" One thing was plain; with such a face as his, 'Twas quite impossible to ever greet Good Mrs. Brown. |