TO MR. DYMOKE.
THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND.
“—— Arma Virumque cano!”—Virgil.
R. DYMOKE! Sir Knight! if I may be so bold—
(I’m a poor simple gentleman just come to town,)
Is your armour put by, like the sheep in a fold?—
Is your gauntlet ta’en up, which you lately flung down?
Are you—who that day rode so mail’d and admired,
Now sitting at ease in a library chair?
Have you sent back to Astley the war-horse you hired,
With a cheque upon Chambers to settle the fare?
What’s become of the cup? Great tin-plate worker! say!
Cup and ball is a game which some people deem fun!
Oh: three golden balls haven’t lured you to play
Rather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one?
How defunct is the show that was chivalry’s mimic!
The breastplate—the feathers—the gallant array!
So fades, so grows dim, and so dies, Mr. Dymoke!
The day of brass breeches! as Wordsworth would say!
Perchance in some village remote, with a cot,
And a cow, and a pig, and a barndoor, and all;—
You show to the parish that peace is your lot,
And plenty,—though absent from Westminster Hall!
And of course you turn every accoutrement now
To its separate use, that your wants may be well-met;—
You toss in your breastplate your pancakes, and grow
A salad of mustard and cress in your helmet.
And you delve the fresh earth with your falchion, less bright
Since hung up in sloth from its Westminster task;
And you bake your own bread in your tin; and, Sir Knight,
Instead of your brow, put your beer in the casque!