  “All these for fourpence.” OH, where are the endless romances Our grandmothers used to adore? The knights with their helms and their lances, Their shields and the favours they wore? And the monks with their magical lore? They have passed to oblivion and Nox; They have fled to the shadowy shore— And where the poetical fancies Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore? The lyric’s melodious expanses, The epics in cantos a score. They have been, and are not. No more Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks, Nor the ladies their languors deplore— They are all in the Fourpenny Box! And the music! The songs and the dances? The tunes that time may not restore? And the tomes where divinity prances? And the pamphlets where heretics roar? They have ceased to be even a bore,— The divine, and the sceptic who mocks; They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core, They are all in the Fourpenny Box! Envoi Suns beat on them; tempests downpour, On the chest without cover or locks, Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door— They are all in the Fourpenny Box! Andrew Lang. |
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