To Mr. Dymoke

Mr. Dymoke! Sir Knight! if I may be so bold--
(I'm a poor simple gentleman just come to town,)
Is your armour put by, like the sheep in a fold?--
Is your gauntlet ta'en up, which you lately flung down?

Are you--who that day rode so mail'd and admired,
Now sitting at ease in a library chair?
Have you sent back to Astley the war-horse you hired,
With a cheque upon Chambers to settle the fare?

What's become of the cup? Great tin-plate worker! say!
Cup and ball is a game which some people deem fun!
Oh: three golden balls haven't lured you to play
Rather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one?

How defunct is the show that was chivalry's mimic!
The breastplate--the feathers--the gallant array!
So fades, so grows dim, and so dies, Mr. Dymoke!
The day of brass breeches! as Wordsworth would say!

Perchance in some village remote, with a cot,
And a cow, and a pig, and a barndoor, and all;--
You show to the parish that peace is your lot,
And plenty,--though absent from Westminster Hall!

And of course you turn every accoutrement now
To its separate use, that your wants may be well-met;--
You toss in your breastplate your pancakes, and grow
A salad of mustard and cress in your helmet.

And you delve the fresh earth with your falchion, less bright
Since hung up in sloth from its Westminster task;
And you bake your own bread in your tin; and, Sir Knight,
Instead of your brow, put your beer in the casque!

How delightful to sit by your beans and your peas,
With a goblet of gooseberry gallantly clutched,
And chat of the blood that had deluged the Pleas
And drenched the King's Bench,--if the glove had been touched!

If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretensions
Had snatched your "best doe,"--he'd have flooded the floor;--
Nor would even the best of his crafty inventions,
"Life Preservers," have floated him out of his gore!

Oh, you and your horse! what a couple was there!
The man and his backer,--to win a great fight!
Though the trumpet was loud,--you'd an undisturbed air!
And the nag snuffed the feast and the fray sans affright!

Yet strange was the course which the good Cato bore
When he waddled tail-wise with the cup to his stall;--
For though his departure was at the front door,
Still he went the back way out of Westminster Hall.

He went,--and 'twould puzzle historians to say,
When they trust Time's conveyance to carry your mail,--
Whether caution or courage inspired him that day,
For though he retreated, he never turned tail.

By my life, he's a wonderful charger!--The best!
Though not for a Parthian corps!--yet for you!--
Distinguished alike at a fray and a feast,
What a horse for a grand Retrospective Review!

What a creature to keep a hot warrior cool
When the sun's in the face, and the shade's far aloof!--
What a tailpiece for Bewick!--or piebald for Poole,
To bear him in safety from Elliston's hoof!

Well! hail to old Cato! the hero of scenes
May Astley or age ne'er his comforts abridge;--
Oh, long may he munch Amphitheatre beans,
Well "pent up in Utica" over the Bridge!

And to you, Mr. Dymoke, Cribb's rival, I keep
Wishing all country pleasures, the bravest and best!
And oh! when you come to the Hummums to sleep,
May you lie "like a warrior taking his rest!"