Three tall poplars are his plumes,
The Dark Knight of the Road.
And he is cuirassed round with glooms,
And all his stern abode
Is loud with seas and dooms.
A rock he takes to be his shield.
Loud winds his clarions are.
Should banded warriors take the field,
Though strong troops come from far,
Naught know they but to yield.
But if a sparrow taunt his helm,
Froth-like his power is blown.
Him shall the mating thrush o'erwhelm.
Yea, I have even known
Tom-tit usurp his realm.