The Poems of John Byrom :: :: University of Virginia Library

Long was the great Figg by the prize fighting Swains
Sole Monarch acknowledg'd of Marybone Plains;
To the Towns, far and near, did his Valour extend,
And swam down the River from Thame to Gravesend;
Where liv'd Mr. Sutton, Pipe-maker by Trade,
Who, hearing that Figg was thought such a stout Blade,
Resolv'd to put in for a Share of his Fame,
And so sent to challenge the Champion of Thame.

II

With alternate Advantage two Trials had past,
When they fought out the Rubbers on Wednesday last.
To see such a Contest the House was so full,
There hardly was room left to thrust in your Skull.
With a Prelude of Cudgels we first were saluted,
And two or three Shoulders most handsomely fluted;
Till, wearied at last with inferior Disasters,
All the Company cry'd: “Come, the Masters! the Masters!”

III

Whereupon the bold Sutton first mounted the Stage,
Made his Honours, as usual, and yearn'd to engage;
Then Figg, with a Visage so fierce and sedate,
Came and enter'd the List with his fresh-shaven Pate.
Their Arms were encircled by Armigers two,
With a red Ribbon Sutton's and Figg's with a blue.
Thus adorn'd, the two Heroes, 'twixt Shoulder and Elbow,
Shook Hands, and went to't, and the Word it was “Bilbo.”

IV

Sure such a Concern in the Eyes of Spectators
Was never yet seen in our Amphitheátres:

Our Commons and Peers, from their several Places,
To half an Inch Distance all pointed their Faces;
While the Rays of old Phœbus, that shot thro' the Sky-light,
Seem'd to make on the Stage a new kind of Twilight;
And the Gods, without doubt, if one could but have seen 'em,
Were peeping there thro' to do Justice between 'em.

V

Figg struck the first Stroke, and with such a vast Fury,
That he broke his huge Weapon in Twain, I assure you;
And, if his brave Rival this Blow had not warded,
His Head from his Shoulders had quite been discarded.
Figg arm'd him again, and they took t'other Tilt,
And then Sutton's Blade run away from its Hilt.
The Weapons were frighted, but as for the Men,
In Truth they ne'er minded, but at it again.

VI

Such a Force in their Blows, you'd have thought it a Wonder
Every Stroke they receiv'd did not cleave them asunder;
Yet so great was their Courage, so equal their Skill,
That they both seem'd as safe as a Thief in a Mill:
While in doubtful Attention Dame Victory stood,
And which Side to take could not tell for her Blood,
But remain'd, like the Ass 'twixt two Bottles of Hay,
Without ever moving an Inch either way.

VII

Till Jove to the Gods signified his Intention
In a Speech that he made them, too tedious to mention;
But the Upshot on't was, that, at that very Bout,
From a Wound in Figg's Side the hot Blood spouted out.
Her Ladyship then seem'd to think the Case plain;
But Figg stepping forth with a sullen disdain,
Shew'd the Gash, and appeal'd to the Company round,
If his own broken Sword had not given him the Wound?

VIII

That Bruises and Wounds a Man's Spirit should touch,
With Danger so little, with Honour so much!—
Well, they both took a Dram, and return'd to the Battle,
And with a fresh Fury they made the Swords rattle;
While Sutton's Right Arm was observèd to bleed
By a Touch from his Rival,—so Jove had decreed,—
Just enough for to shew that his Blood was not Ichor,
But made up, like Figg's, of the common red Liquor.

IX

Again they both rush'd with so equal a Fire on,
That the Company cry'd: “Hold, enough of cold Iron!
To the Quarter Staff now, Lads.” So first having dram'd it,
They took to their Wood, and i'faith never sham'd it.
The first Bout they had was so fair and so handsome,
That, to make a fair Bargain, 'twas worth a King's Ransom;

And Sutton such Bangs to his Neighbour imparted,
Would have made any Fibres but Figg's to have smarted.

X

Then after that Bout they went on to another,—
But the Matter must end on some Fashion or other:
So Jove told the Gods he had made a Decree,
That Figg should hit Sutton a stroke on the Knee.
Tho' Sutton, disabled as soon as he hit him,
Would still have fought on, but Jove would not permit him.
'Twas his Fate, not his Fault, that constrain'd him to yield:
And thus the great Figg became Lord of the Field.

XI

Now, after such Men, who can bear to be told
Of your Roman and Greek puny Heroes of old?
To compare such poor Dogs as Alcides and Theseus
To Sutton and Figg would be very facetious.
Were Hector himself, with Apollo to back him,
To encounter with Sutton,—zooks! how he would thwack him!
Or Achilles, tho' old Mother Thetis had dipt him,
With Figg—odds my Life! how he would have unript him!

XII

To Cæsar and Pompey, for want of Things juster,
We compare these brave Boys; but 'twill never pass Muster.
Did those mighty Fellows e'er fight Hand to Fist once?
No, I thank you; they kept at a suitable Distance.
What is Pompey the Great, with his Armour begirt,
To the much greater Sutton, who fought in his Shirt?
Or is Figg to be pair'd with a Cap-a-pee Roman.
Who scorn'd any Fence but a jolly Abdomen?