The spear-the gallant tilter's prideThe 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- 70 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!'

My grass is of that sort-alas !— That makes no hay,-call'd sparrowgrass

By folks of vulgar tongue!
Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet!
I think of cowslip-cups—but meet
With very vile rebuffs!

For meadow buds, I get a whiff
Of Cheshire cheese,-or only sniff
The turtle made at Cuff's.
How tenderly Rousseau review'd
His periwinkles !-mine are stew'd!
My rose blooms on a gown!
I hunt in vain for eglantine,
And find my blue-bell on the sign

30

That marks the Bell and Crown! Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing From tree to tree, and gaily sing

Or mourn in thickets deep? My cuckoo has some ware to sell, 40 The watchman is my Philomel, My blackbird is a sweep!

All rural things are vilely mock'd,
On every hand the sense is shock'd
With objects hard to bear :
Shades, vernal shades !-where wine
is sold !

And for a turfy bank, behold
An Ingram's rustic chair!

Where are ye, London meads and bow'rs,

And gardens redolent of flow'rs 80
Wherein the zephyr wons?
Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more!
See Hatton's Garden brick'd all o'er;
And that bare wood-St. John's.

No pastoral scene procures me peace;
I hold no Leasowes in my lease,
No cot set round with trees:
No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks
And omnium furnishes my banks
With brokers-not with bees.

Oh well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh 'O rus!'
Of city pleasures sick :

My heart is all at pant to rest

90

In greenwood shades,-myeyes detest This endless meal of brick !

ΙΟ

20