C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
An Ironic Requiem
By Thomas Hood (1799–1845)
W
All chivalrous romantic work
Is ended now and past!
That iron age, which some have thought
Of mettle rather overwrought,
Is now all over-cast.
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.
So sleep his knights who gave that Round
Old Table such éclat!
Oh, Time has plucked the plumy brow!
And none engage at turneys now
But those that go to law!…
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 good old cross-bow bends to Fate;
’Tis gone, the archer’s craft!
No tough arm bends the springing yew,
And jolly draymen ride, in lieu
Of Death, upon the shaft….
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!
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!
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!