OH, where are the endless romances
Our grandmothers used to adore?
The knights with their helms and their lances,
Their shields and the favours they wore?
And the monks with their magical lore?
They have passed to oblivion and Nox;
They have fled to the shadowy shore—
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
And where the poetical fancies
Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore?