THE WEE MAN.

A ROMANCE.
It was a merry company,
And they were just afloat,
When lo! a man, of dwarfish span,
Came up and hailed the boat.
"Good morrow to ye, gentle folks,
And will you let me in?
A slender space will serve my case,
For I am small and thin."
They saw he was a dwarfish man,
And very small and thin;
Not seven such would matter much,
And so they took him in.
They laughed to see his little hat,
With such a narrow brim;
They laughed to note his dapper coat,
With skirts so scant and trim.
But barely had they gone a mile,
When, gravely, one and all
At once began to think the man
Was not so very small:
His coat had got a broader skirt,
His hat a broader brim;
His leg grew stout, and soon plumped out
A very proper limb.
Still on they went, and as they went,
More rough the billows grew,—
And rose and fell, a greater swell,
And he was swelling too!
And lo! where room had been for seven,
For six there scarce was space!
For five!—for four!—for three!—not more
Than two could find a place!
There was not even room for one!
They crowded by degrees—
Ay—closer yet, till elbows met,
And knees were jogging knees.
"Good sir, you must not sit a-stern,
The wave will else come in!"
Without a word he gravely stirred,
Another seat to win.
"Good sir, the boat has lost her trim,
You must not sit a-lee!"
With smiling face and courteous grace,
The middle seat took he.
But still, by constant quiet growth,
His back became so wide,
Each neighbor wight, to left and right,
Was thrust against the side.
Lord! how they chided with themselves,
That they had let him in;
To see him grow so monstrous now,
That came so small and thin.
On every brow a dewdrop stood,
They grew so scared and hot,—
"I' the name of all that's great and tall,
Who are ye, sir, and what?"
Loud laughed the Gogmagog, a laugh
As loud as giant's roar—
"When first I came, my proper name
Was Little—now I'm Moore!"[39]

THE PROGRESS OF ART.

Oh happy time!—Art's early days!
When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,
Narcissus-like I hung!
When great Rembrandt but little seemed,
And such Old Masters all were deemed
As nothing to the young!
Some scratchy strokes—abrupt and few,
So easily and swift I drew,
Sufficed for my design;
My sketchy, superficial hand
Drew solids at a dash—and spanned
A surface with a line.
Not long my eye was thus content,
But grew more critical—my bent
Essayed a higher walk;
I copied leaden eyes in lead—
Rheumatic hands in white and red,
And gouty feet—in chalk.
Anon my studious art for days
Kept making faces—happy phrase,
For faces such as mine!
Accomplished in the details then,
I left the minor parts of men,
And drew the form divine.
Old Gods and Heroes—Trojan—Greek,
Figures—long after the antique,
Great Ajax justly feared;
Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt,
And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt
Bird-nesters to his beard.
A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,
A Pallas that out-stared her owl,
A Vulcan—very lame;
A Dian stuck about with stars,
With my right hand I murdered Mars—
(One Williams did the same).
But tired of this dry work at last,
Crayon and chalk aside I cast,
And gave my brush a drink!
Dipping—"as when a painter dips
In gloom of earthquake and eclipse,"—
That is—in Indian ink.
Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose,
Crested with soot, and not with snows:
What clouds of dingy hue!
In spite of what the bard has penned,
I fear the distance did not "lend
Enchantment to the view."
Not Radcliffe's brush did e'er design
Black Forests half so black as mine,
Or lakes so like a pall;
The Chinese cake dispersed a ray
Of darkness, like the light of Day
And Martin over all.
Yet urchin pride sustained me still,
I gazed on all with right good will,
And spread the dingy tint;
"No holy Luke helped me to paint,
The devil surely, not a Saint,
Had any finger in't!"
But colors came!—like morning light,
With gorgeous hues, displacing night,
Or Spring's enlivened scene:
At once the sable shades withdrew;
My skies got very, very blue;
My trees extremely green.
And washed by my cosmetic brush,
How Beauty's cheek began to blush;
With lock of auburn stain—
(Not Goldsmith's Auburn)—nut-brown hair,
That made her loveliest of the fair;
Not "loveliest of the plain!"
Her lips were of vermilion hue:
Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,
Set all my heart in flame!
A young Pygmalion, I adored
The maids I made—but time was stored
With evil—and it came!
Perspective dawned—and soon I saw
My houses stand against its law;
And "keeping" all unkept!
My beauties were no longer things
For love and fond imaginings;
But horrors to be wept!
Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?
Why did I get more artist wise?
It only serves to hint,
What grave defects and wants are mine;
That I'm no Hilton in design—
In nature no De Wint!
Thrice happy time!—Art's early days!
When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,
Narcissus-like I hung!
When great Rembrandt but little seemed,
And such Old Masters all were deemed
As nothing to the young!

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells,—
Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime,
And letters only just in time!
The Muffin-boy has passed away,
The Postman gone—and I must pay,
For down below Deaf Mary dwells,
And does not hear those Evening Bells.[40]
And so 'twill be when she is gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
And other maids with timely yells
Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD.

I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank,
Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond;
And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank,
Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!
All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist,
For She was Fayre and He was Kinde;
The Sunne went down before She wist
Another Sonne had sett behinde!
With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe,
That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne,
She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe
Past being Whipt for fallynge in.
She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde
With Shrikes that Echo answered round—
O foolish Mayd! to be soe sadde
The Momente that her Care was drownd!

DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES.

"I really take it very kind,
This visit, Mrs. Skinner!
I have not seen you such an age—
(The wretch has come to dinner!)
"Your daughters, too, what loves of girls—
What heads for painters' easels!
Come here and kiss the infant, dears—
(And give it p'rhaps the measles!)
"Your charming boys I see are home
From Reverend Mr. Russell's;
'Twas very kind to bring them both—
(What boots for my new Brussels!)
"What! little Clara left at home?
Well now I call that shabby:
I should have loved to kiss her so—
(A flabby, dabby, babby!)
"And Mr. S., I hope he's well,
Ah! though he lives so handy,
He never now drops in to sup—
(The better for our brandy!)
"Come, take a seat—I long to hear
About Matilda's marriage;
You're come of course to spend the day!
(Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage!)
"What! must you go? next time I hope
You'll give me longer measure;
Nay—I shall see you down the stairs—
(With most uncommon pleasure!)
"Good-bye! good-bye! remember all,
Next time you'll take your dinners!
(Now, David, mind I'm not at home
In future to the Skinners!")

SHOOTING PAINS.

"The charge is prepar'd."—Macheath.
If I shoot any more I'll be shot,
For ill-luck seems determined to star me,
I have march'd the whole day
With a gun,—for no pay—
Zounds, I'd better have been in the army!
What matters Sir Christopher's leave;
To his manor I'm sorry I came yet!
With confidence fraught
My two pointers I brought,
But we are not a point towards game yet!
And that gamekeeper too, with advice!
Of my course he has been a nice chalker,
Not far, were his words,
I could go without birds:
If my legs could cry out, they'd cry "Walker!"
Not Hawker could find out a flaw,—
My appointments are modern and Mantony;
And I've brought my own man,
To mark down all he can,
But I can't find a mark for my Anthony!
The partridges,—where can they lie?
I have promis'd a leash to Miss Jervas,
As the least I could do;
But without even two
To brace me,—I'm getting quite nervous!
To the pheasants—how well they're preserv'd!—
My sport's not a jot more beholden,
As the birds are so shy,
For my friends I must buy,
And so send "silver pheasants and golden."
I have tried ev'ry form for a hare,
Every patch, every furze that could shroud her,
With toil unrelax'd,
Till my patience is tax'd,
But I cannot be tax'd for hare-powder.
I've been roaming for hours in three flats,
In the hope of a snipe for a snap at;
But still vainly I court
The percussioning sport,
I find nothing for "setting my cap at!"
A woodcock,—this month is the time,—
Right and left I've made ready my lock for,
With well-loaded double,
But 'spite of my trouble,
Neither barrel can I find a cock for!
A rabbit I should not despise,
But they lurk in their burrows so lowly;
This day's the eleventh,
It is not the seventh,
But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.
For a mallard I've waded the marsh,
And haunted each pool, and each lake—oh!
Mine is not the luck,
To obtain thee, O Duck,
Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!
For a field-fare I've fared far a-field,
Large or small I am never to sack bird,
Not a thrush is so kind
As to fly, and I find
I may whistle myself for a black-bird!
I am angry, I'm hungry, I'm dry,
Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,
And so weary an elf,
I am sick of myself,
And with Number One seem overloaded.
As well one might beat round St. Paul's,
And look out for a cock or a hen there;
I have search'd round and round,
All the Baronet's ground,
But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there!
Joyce may talk of his excellent caps,
But for nightcaps they set me desiring,
And it's really too bad,
Not a shot I have had
With Hall's Powder renown'd for "quick firing."
If this is what people call sport,
Oh! of sporting I can't have a high sense;
And there still remains one
More mischance on my gun—
"Fined for shooting without any licence."

JOHN DAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.
"A Day after the Fair."—Old Proverb.
John Day he was the biggest man
Of all the coachman kind,
With back too broad to be conceived
By any narrow mind.
The very horses knew his weight,
When he was in the rear,
And wished his box a Christmas box,
To come but once a year.
Alas! against the shafts of love,
What armor can avail?
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through
His scarlet coat of mail.
The barmaid of the Crown he loved,
From whom he never ranged,
For though he changed his horses there,
His love he never changed.
He thought her fairest of all fares,
So fondly love prefers;
And often, among twelve outsides,
Deemed no outside like hers!
One day, as she was sitting down
Beside the porter-pump—
He came, and knelt with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.
Said she, my taste will never learn
To like so huge a man,
So I must beg you will come here
As little as you can.
But still he stoutly urged his suit
With vows, and sighs, and tears,
Yet could not pierce her heart, altho'
He drove the Dart for years.
In vain he wooed, in vain he sued,
The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
While on his way to Stroud.
He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town,
The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.
At last her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin,
But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.
O Mary! view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf;
Tho' I have never had a wife,
I've lost my better half.
Alas, in vain he still assail'd,
He heart withstood the dint;
Though he had carried sixteen stone
He could not move a flint.
Worn out, at last he made a vow
To break his being's link;
For he was so reduced in size,
At nothing he could shrink.
Now some will talk in water's praise,
And waste a deal of breath,
But John, tho' he drank nothing else,
He drank himself to death!
The cruel maid that caused his love
Found out the fatal close,
For looking in the butt, she saw
The butt-end of his woes.
Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,
But that is only talk—
For after riding all his life,
His ghost objects to walk!

HUGGINS AND DUGGINS.

PASTORAL, AFTER POPE.
Two swains or clowns—but call them swains—
Whilst keeping flocks on Salisbury plains,
For all that tend on sheep as drovers
Are turned to songsters or to lovers,
Each of the lass he call'd his dear,
Began to carol loud and clear.
First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,
In the way of ancient shepherd men;
Who thus alternate hitched in song,
"All things by turns, and nothing long."
HUGGINS.
Of all the girls about our place,
There's one beats all in form and face;
Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead,
You'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.
DUGGINS.
To groves and streams I tell my flame,
I make the cliffs repeat her name;
When I'm inspired by gills and noggins,
The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!
HUGGINS.
When I am walking in the grove,
I think of Peggy as I rove.
I'd carve her name on every tree,
But I don't know my A, B, C.
DUGGINS.
Whether I walk in hill or valley,
I think of nothing else but Sally.
I'd sing her praise, but I can sing
No song, except "God save the king!"
HUGGINS.
My Peggy does all nymphs excel,
And all confess she bears the bell,—
Where'er she goes swains flock together,
Like sheep that follow the bell wether.
DUGGINS.
Sally is tall and not too straight,—
Those very poplar shapes I hate;
But something twisted like an S,—
A crook becomes a shepherdess.
HUGGINS.
When Peggy's dog her arms empris'n
I often wish my lot was hisn;
How often I should stand and turn,
To get a pat from hands like hern.
DUGGINS.
I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be,
To stand about, and stare at she;
But when I look, she turns and shies,
And won't bear none but their sheep's eyes!
HUGGINS.
Love goes with Peggy where she goes,—
Beneath her smile the garden grows;
Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts,
'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!
DUGGINS.
Where Sally goes it's always Spring,
Her presence brightens everything;
The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is,
It makes brass farthings look like guineas.
HUGGINS.
For Peggy I can have no joy,
She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy,
And keeps me, by her wayward tricks,
As comfortless as sheep with ticks!
DUGGINS.
Sally is ripe as June or May,
And yet as cold as Christmas Day;
For when she's asked to change her lot,
Lamb's wool,—but Sally, she wool not.
HUGGINS.
Only with Peggy and with health,
I'd never wish for state or wealth;
Talking of having health and more pence,
I'd drink her health if I had fourpence!
DUGGINS.
Oh, how that day would seem to shine,
If Sally's banns were read with mine;
She cries, when such a wish I carry,
"Marry come up!" but will not marry.

THE CHINA-MENDER.

Good-Morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call! Well! here's another pretty job!
Lord help my Lady!—what a smash!—if you had only heard her sob!
It was all through Mr. Lambert: but for certain he was winey,
To think for to go to sit down on a table full of Chiney.
"Deuce take your stupid head!" says my Lady to his very face;
But politeness, you know, is nothing when there's Chiney in the case;
And if ever a woman was fond of Chiney to a passion,
It's my mistress, and all sorts of it, whether new or old fashion.
Her brother's a sea-captain, and brings her home shiploads—
Such bronzes, and such dragons, and nasty squatting things like toads;
And great nidnoddin' mandarins, with palsies in the head:
I declare I've often dreamt of them, and had nightmares in my bed.
But the frightfuller they are—lawk! she loves them all the better,
She'd have Old Nick himself made of Chiney if they'd let her.
Lawk-a-mercy! break her Chiney, and it's breaking her very heart;
If I touched it, she would very soon say, "Mary, we must part."
To be sure she is unlucky: only Friday comes Master Randall,
And breaks a broken spout, and fresh chips a tea-cup handle:
He's a dear, sweet little child, but he will so finger and touch,
And that's why my Lady doesn't take to children much.
Well, there's stupid Mr. Lambert, with his two greatcoat flaps.
Must go and sit down on the Dresd'n shepherdesses' laps,
As if there was no such things as rosewood chairs in the room!
I couldn't have made a greater sweep with the handle of the broom.
Mercy on us! how my mistress began to rave and tear!
Well, after all, there's nothing like good ironstone ware for wear.
If ever I marry, that's flat, I'm sure it won't be John Dockery—
I should be a wretched woman in a shop full of crockery.
I should never like to wipe it, though I love to be neat and tidy,
And afraid of meat on market-days every Monday and Friday
I'm very much mistook if Mr. Lambert's will be a catch;
The breaking the Chiney will be the breaking-off of his own match.
Missis wouldn't have an angel, if he was careless about Chiney;
She never forgives a chip, if it's ever so small and tiny.
Lawk! I never saw a man in all my life in such a taking;
I could find it in my heart to pity him for all his mischief-making.
To see him stand a-hammering and stammering like a zany;
But what signifies apologies, if they won't mend old Chaney!
If he sent her up whole crates full, from Wedgwood's and Mr. Spode's,
He couldn't make amends for the crack'd mandarins and smash'd toads.
Well! every one has their tastes, but, for my part, my own self,
I'd rather have the figures on my poor dear grandmother's old shelf
A nice pea-green poll-parrot, and two reapers with brown ears of corns,
And a shepherd with a crook after a lamb with two gilt horns,
And such a Jemmy Jessamy in top-boots and sky-blue vest,
And a frill and flower'd waistcoat, with a fine bow-pot at the breast.
God help her, poor old soul! I shall come into 'em at her death;
Though she's a hearty woman for her years, except her shortness of breath.
Well! you may think the things will mend—if they won't, Lord mend us all!
My lady will go in fits, and Mr. Lambert won't need to call;
I'll be bound in any money, if I had a guinea to give,
He won't sit down again on Chiney the longest day he has to live.
Poor soul! I only hope it won't forbid his banns of marriage;
Or he'd better have sat behind on the spikes of my Lady's carriage.
But you'll join 'em all of course, and stand poor Mr. Lambert's friend,
I'll look in twice a day, just to see, like, how they mend.
To be sure it is a sight that might draw tears from dogs and cats,
Here's this pretty little pagoda, now, has lost four of its cocked hats.
Be particular with the pagoda: and then here's this pretty bowl—
The Chinese Prince is making love to nothing because of this hole;
And here's another Chinese man, with a face just like a doll,
Do stick his pigtail on again, and just mend his parasol.
But I needn't tell you what to do, only do it out of hand,
And charge whatever you like to charge—my Lady won't make a stand.
Well! good-morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call, for it's time our gossip ended:
And you know the proverb, the less as is said, the sooner the Chiney's mended.

DOMESTIC DIDACTICS.

BY AN OLD SERVANT.
I.
THE BROKEN DISH.
What's life but full of care and doubt
With all its fine humanities,
With parasols we walk about,
Long pigtails, and such vanities.
We plant pomegranate trees and things,
And go in gardens sporting,
With toys and fans of peacocks' wings,
To painted ladies courting.
We gather flowers of every hue,
And fish in boats for fishes,
Build summer-houses painted blue,—
But life's as frail as dishes!
Walking about their groves of trees,
Blue bridges and blue rivers,
How little thought them two Chinese,
They'd both be smashed to shivers!
II.
ODE TO PEACE.
WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS'S GRAND ROUT.
Oh Peace, oh come with me and dwell—
But stop, for there's the bell.
Oh Peace! for thee I go and sit in churches
On Wednesday, when there's very few
In loft or pew—
Another ring, the tarts are come from Birch's.
Oh Peace! for thee I have avoided marriage—
Hush! there's a carriage.
Oh Peace! thou art the best of earthly goods—
The five Miss Woods!
Oh Peace! thou art the goddess I adore—
There come some more.
Oh Peace! thou child of solitude and quiet—
That's Lord Dunn's footman, for he loves a riot!
Oh Peace!
Knocks will not cease.
Oh Peace! thou wert for human comfort plann'd—
That's Weippert's band.
Oh Peace! how glad I welcome thy approaches—
I hear the sound of coaches.
Oh Peace! oh Peace! another carriage stops—
It's early for the Blenkinsops.
Oh Peace! with thee I love to wander,
But wait till I have showed up Lady Squander,
And now I've seen her up the stair,
Oh Peace!—but here comes Captain Hare.
Oh Peace! thou art the slumber of the mind,
Untroubled, calm and quiet, and unbroken,—
If that is Alderman Guzzle from Portsoken,
Alderman Gobble won't be far behind.
Oh Peace! serene in worldly shyness,—
Make way there for his Serene Highness!
Oh Peace! if you do not disdain
To dwell amongst the menial train,
I have a silent place and lone,
That you and I may call our own;
Where tumult never makes an entry—
Susan! what business have you in my pantry?
Oh Peace! but there is Major Monk,
At variance with his wife—Oh Peace!
And that great German, Vander Trunk,
And that great talker, Miss Apreece;
Oh Peace! so dear to poet's quills—
Oh Peace! our greatest renovator;
I wonder where I put my waiter—
Oh Peace! but here my Ode I'll cease,
I have no peace to write of Peace!
III.
A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.
When I reflect with serious sense,
While years and years run on,
How soon I may be summoned hence—
There's cook a-calling John.
Our lives are built so frail and poor,
On sand and not on rocks,
We're hourly standing at Death's door—
There's some one double knocks.
All human days have settled terms,
Our fates we cannot force;
This flesh of mine will feed the worms—
They're come to lunch of course!
And when my body's turned to clay,
And dear friends hear my knell,
Oh let them give a sigh and say—
I hear the upstairs bell!
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.[41]

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[42]
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 crossbow bends—to Fate;
'Tis gone, the archer's craft!
No tough arm bends the spinning 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 armor 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 labor 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!