IV.

TO MARY HOUSEMAID, ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

Mary, you know I've no love nonsense, And though I pen on such a day, I don't mean flirting, on my conscience, Or writing in the courting way.

Though Beauty hasn't formed your feature, It saves you p'rhaps from being vain, And many a poor unhappy creature May wish that she was half as plain.

Your virtues would not rise an inch, Although your shape was two foot taller, And wisely you let others pinch Great waists and feet to make them smaller.

You never try to spare your hands From getting red by household duty, But doing all that it commands, Their coarseness is a moral beauty.

Let Susan flourish her fair arms, And at your old legs sneer and scoff, But let her laugh, for you have charms That nobody knows nothing of.

LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY.[41]

[Footnote 41: These verses form a good specimen of Hood's capabilities for writing to order. They first appeared in the _Bijou_ for 1828, accompanying a vignette by Thomas Stothard of two knights, mounted, and in complete armor, engaged in deadly conflict. This was doubtless (after the then custom of _Annuals_) placed in Hood's hands for him to supply the appropriate letterpress.]

Well hast thou cried, departed Burke, All chivalrous romantic work Is ended now and past!-- That iron age--which some have thought Of metal rather overwrought-- Is now all overcast!

Ay! where are those heroic knights Of old--those armadillo wights Who wore the plated vest?-- Great Charlemagne and all his peers Are cold--enjoying with their spears An everlasting rest!

The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound; So sleep his knights who gave that Round Old Table such eclat!

Oh, Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!

And none engage at tourneys now But those that go to law!

Grim John o' Gaunt is quite gone by, And Guy is nothing but a Guy, Orlando lies forlorn!-- Bold Sidney, and his kidney--nay, Those "early champions"--what are they But "Knights without a morn"?

No Percy branch now perseveres, Like those of old, in breaking spears-- The name is now a lie!-- Surgeons, alone, by any chance, Are all that ever couch a lance To couch a body's eye!

Alas for Lion-Hearted Dick, That cut the Moslems to the quick, His weapon lies in peace: Oh, it would warm them in a trice, If they could only have a spice Of his old mace in Greece!

The famed Rinaldo lies a-cold, And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold, That scaled the holy wall!

No Saracen meets Paladin, We hear of no great _Salad_in, But only grow the small!

Our _Cressys_, too, have dwindled since To penny things--at our Black Prince[42]

Historic pens would scoff: The only one we moderns had Was nothing but a Sandwich lad, And measles took him off!

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.

With gun of tin and sword of lath, Lord! how I walk'd in glory's path With regimental mates, By sound of trump and rub-a dubs-- To 'siege the washhouse--charge the tubs-- Or storm the garden gates.

Ah me! my retrospective soul!

As over memory's muster-roll I cast my eyes anew, My former comrades all the while Rise up before me, rank and file, And form in dim review.

Ay, there they stand, and dress in line, Lubbock, and Fenn, and David Vine, And dark "Jamaeky Forde!"

And limping Wood, and "Cockey Hawes,"

Our captain always made, because He had a _real_ sword!

Long Lawrence, Natty Smart, and Soame, Who said he had a gun at home, But that was all a brag; Ned Ryder, too, that used to sham A prancing horse, and big Sam Lamb That _would_ hold up the flag!

Tom Anderson, and "Dunny White,"