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--