A Beggar Riding

RAGS are my armor, lame my steed,
Old turnip serves me as a crest;
Rusty my spear and great my need,
My arms emblazoned on my vest,

And that is patched; but O! my cause
Is great, my heart beside is high,
And I shall win the world’s applause
In some far tourney, by and by.

Meanwhile my shield, old dustbin lid.
Hangs idle on my tattered arm;
My foeman saw me, and he hid,
His sentries raised the loud alarm;

The field mice hopped into their holes
And there was terror in the sky,
And terror in their shrinking souls
Who saw the beggar riding by.

Wind is my ally; when he blows
He swells my ragged shirt, my socks,
My warlike sleeves; and then the crows
Rise up and wheel in raucous flocks,

Screaming in fear; the golden crops
Bend from the blasts of fateful war,
Until the wind, grown feeble, drops,
And the mad beggar rides no more.