Meanwhile a thousand more, as wild as he, Were all employed upon the self-same thing; And when each had rode hard for his “ladye,” They all come back and met within a ring.
Where all the men who were entitled “syr” Appeared with martial air and haughty frown, Bearing “long poles, each other up to stir,” And, in the stir-up, thrust each other down.
And then they galloped round with dire intent, Each knight resolved another’s pride to humble; And laughter rang around the tournament As oft as any of them had a tumble.
And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die, The victim of a stout, unlucky poke, Mayhap some fair one wiped one beauteous eye, The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke.
Soon, then, the lady, whose grim, stalwart swain Had got the strongest horse and toughest pole, Bedecked him, kneeling, with a golden chain, And plighted troth before the motley whole.
Alas! the days of chivalry are fled, The brilliant tournament exists no more. Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead, And even courtship is a dreadful bore.
The Song of the Camp.
