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 eclat!
Oh Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!
And none engage at turneys now
But those who 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,