'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.