The Colonial Wing

Here is the store house of Her Majesty
Well guarded by sentry but looks are freeCall this the ray-less and benighted age
Witches by tallow candles shifted
Shifted their shapesHere is the pestle and mortar
That ground the poison seed
A lute, a suit for jousting
And the poems of a balladeerWhen all the Latin books
Were copied off in golden script
Well hoarded away in
A monastery cryptSuperstition
Superstition beyond beliefOver mountain, over dune and over sea
Crude map and compass lead the caravan
And lead the fleetHere's the loot and plunder
They bore home
Ivory tusk inlaid with precious stoneRaw silk and spices by the barrel load
A soft skin drum with mallets
Of human boneA world wide rampage
Rampage of greedSo here the tour concludes
The Colonial Wing
The rooms of the most refined
Museum propertyAn early pair of spectacles
A claw footed divan
Ornate clocks with birds that strut
On the half hours and quarter hoursHear them chime