The rusty spear is laid aside,
Oh spits now domineer!—
The coat of mail is left alone,—
And where is all chain armour 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—