The Fancy A Selection from the Poetical Remains of the late Peter Corcoran, of Gray's Inn, Student at Law. With a brief memoir of his life [by J. H. Reynolds] |
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LINES TO PHILIP SAMSON,
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 | The Fancy |  |
LINES TO PHILIP SAMSON,
THE BRUMMAGEM YOUTH.
Youth of that ancient and halfpenny town!
Maul manufacturers; rattle, and rummage 'em;—
Country swell'd heads may afford you renown:
Here in Town-rings, we find Fame very fast go,
The exquisite light weights are heavy to bruise;
For the graceful and punishing hand of Belasco
Foils,—and will foil all attempts on the Jews.
For bread from the Fancy is light weight enough;
Moulsey, whose turf is the sweetest to tread on,
Candidly owns you're a good bit of stuff:
But hot heads and slow hands are utterly useless,
When Israelite science and caution awake;
So pr'ythee go home, Youth! and pester the Jews less;
And work for a cutlet, and not for a stake.
Make your fist free with each Brummagem rib;
But never again, Lad, commit such a folly, pray!
As sigh to be one of the messmates of Crib.
Leave the P. C. purse, for others to handle,—
Throw up no hat in a Moulsey Hurst sun;—
Bid adieu, by the two-penny post, to Jack Randall ,
And take the outside of the coach,—one pound one!
And Shelton and Carter, and Bob Burns and Spring:
Forget toss for sides, and forget all the floggings,—
While shirts are pull'd off,—to make perfect the ring.
Your heart is a real one, but skill, Phil, is wanted;
Without it, all uselessly bravery begs:—
Be content that you've beat Dolly Smith, and been chaunted,—
And train'd,—stripp'd,—and pitted,—and hit off your legs!
Of all the great men of this age, in poetry, philosophy, or pugilism, there is no one of such transcendent talent as Randall;—no one who combines the finest natural powers with the most elegant and finished acquired ones. The late Professor Stewart (who has left the learned ring) is acknowledged to be clever in philosophy, but he is a left-handed metaphysical fighter at best, and cannot be relied upon at closing with his subject. Lord Byron is a powerful poet, with a mind weighing fourteen stone; but he is too sombre a hitter, and is apt to lose his temper.—Randall has no defect, or at least he has not yet betrayed the appearance of one. His figure is remarkable, when peeled, for its statue-like beauty, and nothing can equal the alacrity with which he uses either hand, or the coolness with which he receives. His goodness on his legs, Boxiana (a Lord Eldon in the skill and caution of his judgments) assures us, is unequalled. He doubles up an opponent, as a friend lately declared, as easily as though he were picking a flower, or pinching a girl's cheek. He is about to fight Jos. Hudson, who challenged him lately at the Royal Tennis Court. Randall declared, that “though he had declined fighting, he would accommodate Joshua;” a kind and benevolent reply, which does equal honour to his head and heart. The editor of this little volume, like Goldfinch in the Road to Ruin, “would not stay away for a thousand pounds.” He has already looked about for a tall horse and a taxed cart, and he has some hopes of compassing a drab coat and a white hat, for he has no wish to appear singular at such scenes.
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