In brief,--Oh teach the child its moral rote, Not _in_ the way from which ’twill not depart,-- But _out_--out--out! Oh, bid it walk remote! And if the skies are closed against the smart, Ev’n let him wear the single-breasted coat, For that ensureth singleness of heart.-- Do what you will, his every want supply, _Keep_ him--but _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! TO MR. DYMOKE. THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND. “---- Arma Virumque cano!”--VIRGIL. 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.