Who has not heard of the Lion King Who made the harps of the minstrels ring? Oh, well they might imagine it Hard for chivalry's ranks to show A knight more gallant to face a foe, With a firmer lance or a heavier blow, Than Richard I. Plantagenet; Or gayer withal: for he loved his joke, As well as he loved, with slashing stroke, The haughtiest helm to hack at: Wine or blood he laughingly poured; 'Twas a lightsome word or a heavy sword, As he found a foe or a festive board, With a skull or a joke to crack at. Yet some their candid belief avow, That, if Richard lived in England now, And his lot were only a common one, He ne'er had meddled with kings or states, But might have been a bruiser of pates And champion now of the "heavy weights,"-- A first-rate "Fighting Phenomenon." A vassal bound in peace and war To Richard I. was Vidomar,-- A noble as proud and needy As ever before that monarch bowed, But not so needy and not so proud As the monarch himself was greedy. Vicomte was he of the Limousin, Where stones were thick and crops were thin, And profits small and slow to come in. But slow and sure, the father's plan, did Not suit the son. Sire lived close-handed; Became, not rich, but very landed. The only debt that ever he made Was Nature's debt, and that he paid About the time of the Third Crusade,-- A time when the fashion was fully set By Richard of running in tilts and debt, When plumes were high and prudence low, And every knight felt bound to "go The pace," and just like Richard do, By running his purse and a Paynim through. Yet do not suppose that Vidomar Was ever a knight in the Holy War: For Richard many a Saracen's head Had lopped before the old Count was dead; And Richard was home from Palestine, Home from the dungeon of Tiernstein, And many a Christian corpse had made, Ere the time in which the story is laid. But the fashion he set became so strong, That Vidomar was hurried along, And did as many a peer has done On reaching a title and twenty-one, And met the fate that will meet a peer Who lives in state on nothing a year. Deserted by all, except some Jews, Holding old post-obits and IOUs, Who hunted him up and hunted him down, He left Limoges, the capital town, For his country castle Chalus, (As spendthrift lords to Boulogne repair, To give their estates a chance to air,) And went to turning fallows; At least, he ordered it, (much the same,) And went himself in pursuit of game Or any rural pleasure, Till one fine day, as he rode away, A serf came running behind to say They'd found a crock of treasure. No more he thought of hawk or hound, But spurred to the spot, and there he found, Beyond his boldest thoughts, A sum to set him afloat again,-- The leading figure, 'twas very plain, Was followed by several 0s.