Where are those old and feudal clans,
Their pikes, and bills, and partisans,
    Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs? 
A battle was a battle then,
A breathing piece of work; but men
    Fight now—­with powder puffs!

The curtal-axe is out of date;
The good old crossbow bends—­to Fate;
    ’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.

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—­
    Except upon a cart!

Methinks I see the bounding barb,
Clad like his Chief in steely garb,
   For warding steel’s appliance! 
Methinks I hear the trumpet stir! 
’Tis but the guard, to Exeter,
    That bugles the “Defiance”!

In cavils when will cavaliers
Set ringing helmets by the ears,
    And scatter plumes about? 
Or blood—­if they are in the vein? 
That tap will never run again—­
    Alas! the Casque is out!

No iron-crackling now is scored
By dint of battle-axe or sword,
    To find a vital place—­
Though certain doctors still pretend,
Awhile, before they kill a friend,
    To labor through his case.

Farewell, then, ancient men of might! 
Crusader, errant squire, and knight! 
    Our coats and customs soften;
To rise would only make you weep—­
Sleep on, in rusty-iron sleep,
    As in a safety coffin!

[Footnote 42:  The allusion to our modern “Black Prince” is apparently to Prince Le Boo, whose death, while on a visit to England, had so impressed the public imagination.  He came, however, from the Pelew Islands, not the “Sandwich;” and it was smallpox, not measles, that “took him off.”]

PLAYING AT SOLDIERS.

    “Who’ll serve the King?”

What little urchin is there never
Hath had that early scarlet fever,
  Of martial trappings caught? 
Trappings well call’d—­because they trap
And catch full many a country chap
  To go where fields are fought!

What little urchin with a rag
Hath never made a little flag
  (Our plate will show the manner),
And wooed each tiny neighbor still,
Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will,
  To come beneath the banner!

Just like that ancient shape of mist,
In Hamlet, crying “’List, oh, ’list!”
  Come, who will serve the king,
And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead,
And cut off Bonyparty’s head?—­
  And all that sort of thing.

So used I, when I was a boy,
To march with military toy,
  And ape the soldier’s life;—­
And with a whistle or a hum,
I thought myself a Duke of Drum
  At least, or Earl of Fife.