Classic Poem

The lute and lance of the old Romance
Are dead an age before us;
The lute is dust, the lance is rust,
And neither now can bore us.

And never more shall troubadour
His knightly lays be singing,
For lance and lute alike are mute
Before the rifles ringing.

While brassy throats with iron notes
Their compliments are flinging,
A rifle gun does up in one
Our fighting and our singing.