The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO what does Britain owe her Fame,
Her honour, and superior name,
With all the splendour of her Glory,
In ancient, and in modern story?
Where'er her Colours are unfurl'd,
Where'er her war-like Thunder's hurl'd,
Or on the Land, or on the Sea,
She is the Child of Victory.
—Is it to Commerce that she owes
The name which all the world bestows?
Wealth may afford its pow'rful aid,
But Glory is not gain'd by Trade.
Cowards, 'tis true, are sometimes bold;
To shield from Force the treasur'd gold;
Nay, half-starv'd Av'rice will be brave
From pilf'ring hands his bags to save:

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But this strange passion of the hour,
Derives from Fear its transient power.
Say, is it Freedom that inspires
The bosom with its early fires?
That is a motive to incite
The embattl'd Phalanx to the fight:
But Boys are brave, while in their teens,
Before they know what Freedom means:—
No, though the cause I cannot scan,
'Tis Nature forms an Englishman.
'Tis Nature's powers that impart
Its courage to the British heart:
'Tis the Home Combats that prepare
The Hero for the feats of War.
It is the triumphs of the Fist,
The contests of the Pugilist,
'Tis these that discipline the Will
To future darings, and instill
The Spirit that ne'er knows to yield
In contests of the tented Field;
And teach the Seaman to sustain
The bloody conflict of the Main.

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How oft we see John Bull delight.
To court the fierce, domestic fight,
Where no base, angry passions lead
To murd'rous act, or vengeful deed:
Where Honour is the darling Meed:
Tho', sometimes, to reward the bold,
The Conq'eror shares the wager'd gold.
From Art, no cov'ring he receives,
His arms are those which Nature gives:
In native strength, he scorns to wield
The Spear, the Broadsword, or the Shield.
No helmet glitters on his brow,
His brawny breast is bare below.
The well-cropt hair his temples crown,
Or brown, or fair, and all his own.
The blows proceed from well-clench'd fist,
The strong-nerv'd arms those blows resist;
And though by some judicious knock,
An eye is clos'd—a jaw is broke:
Or by some well-directed blows,
The blood comes gushing from the nose;

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And tho' the ribs may change their hue,
On being beaten black and blue;
Or lifted up, 'twixt earth and Heaven,
A fierce cross-buttock may be given
To him who, whatsoe'er his science,
When strength commands, must yield compliance:
But, when the Battle's lost and won,
And all th'enliv'ning Hubbub's done,
Peace soon resumes her former reign,
And all is harmony again.
What, tho' the vanquish'd Hero's led
Hobbling away to seek his bed,
And e'en the Conqueror, opprest
With weighty blows, has need of rest;
Yet here the short-liv'd fury ends,
And the fierce foes are instant friends.

One of our modern Statesmen thought,
A man, with various wisdom fraught,
That this same pugilistic art
Did courage to the mind impart;

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And that each battle which is seen,
'Mong country folks upon the Green,
Where tender smiles might be the prize
Of him who clos'd a rival's eyes,
Would urge the Youth to seek the fame
Which waits upon a Soldier's name.
—I am delighted to agree
With this great Man's philosophy;
Which, to confirm, I've got a story,
That tells of Death, as well as Glory.

Harry from Sheffield, Tom from Town,
Experienc'd Boxers of renown.
Had met to fight near Epsom Down.
Who the keen Bottle-holders were,
Or who the Champions did prepare,
Were names too crabbed to rehearse
In the soft melody of Verse;
And they who kept the well-fenc'd ring
The Muses do not chuse to sing.
Thither the Amateurs repair,
The noble Fanciers all were there—

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And thousands from the country round,
Were seen on the enchanted ground.
Smart Gigs and Curricles appear,
While slow-pac'd Carts bring up the rear.
That glorious day, 'twas who could get
A Horse, or Chaise:—they all were let.
In London, many a sooty Son
Of Labour, left his work undone;
And trudg'd through heat, and dust to see
The Pugilistic Chivalry.
And all the Kiddies were awake,
The Bets to offer, or to take.

The Combatants at length appear'd—
A thousand tongues their presence cheer'd.
They stripp'd, and to the eager eye,
Display'd their strength and symmetry.
Harry, Herculean shape possess'd,
While Tom's superior form was dress'd
In those proportions that might grace
A Figure of Celestial Race;

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Such as the Bards of ancient days
Have sung in their immortal Lays,
And to the Sculptor might impart
The antique beauties of his Art.
Both stood erect, in manly tread,
An Ajax and a Diomede.

At length, th'impatient Fight began:
'Twas hand to hand and man to man.
Some lively sparring first took place,
And then a blow on either face.
Again for mastery they try,
And then a hit on either eye.
Each Hero for advantage watches:
Tom aim'd a blow which t'other catches;
Then, as they both th'occasion seek
Strongly to strike, Tom's ruddy cheek
Receiv'd a Hit beneath the eye,
That made the crimson fluid fly;
And the conclusion of the round
Is Tom from London on the ground.

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A Facer is the term that's us'd,
Nor would the Slang have been refus'd
But that the Muse, though fond of chime,
Capriciously denied a rhyme.

In various way the Betting ran,
But Harry was the favourite man.

Now Tom broke through his rival's guard,
And of this movement the reward
Was, with the quickness of a bullet,
To force a hit on Harry's gullet.
His ev'ry effort seem'd to tell;
And the round clos'd when Harry fell.

Five minutes now had pass'd away,
In sparring, and such cautious play,
When Harry, all his strength address'd
To place a blow on Tommy's breast.
The stroke resounded like a drum:
It seem'd as if Tom's end was come;
But no—for he contriv'd to place
An active Hit on Harry's face.

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And of this round, no more's to tell—
Than that they clos'd, and that they fell.

Now Harry seiz'd his rival's thighs,
And forc'd him from the earth to rise;
Then did his utmost vigour strain,
To throw him to the earth again;
And, with his own incumbent weight,
Oppress'd him, in that helpless state.
But, like Antæus, as we're told
By those who sung in days of old,
Tom seem'd, when he had touch'd the ground,
With strength augmented, to rebound,
Prepar'd to take another round.

A desparate Rally now took place,
Tom fix'd a Hit on Harry's face.
Harry inflam'd, with anger burn'd,
And such a Leveller return'd,
So fierce a blow upon the head
That Tom fell, and profusely bled.

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The time was past,—nor could he rise,—
His breath heav'd short, clos'd were his eyes:
To save him—vain was each endeavour—
For he had given in for ever.

Harry, though Victor, look'd aghast,
As Tom, from London, breath'd his last;
And wish'd that he had gain'd the day
In some less inauspicious way.
I have, he said, the Battle gain'd,
And my known character sustain'd;
But, Tom has taken such a banging,
'Tis well if I escape from hanging.
All I can say for grief is vain,
That I my purpose will maintain,
Never, I swear, to fight again.

—But Death appear'd!—“Once more, my “friend—
“Yes, one Round more, and all will end.”

The Seconds now, were fill'd with dread:
Umpires, and Bottle-holders fled:

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Confusion reign'd throughout the scene,
And the Crowds hurried from the Green.
The roads were quickly cover'd o'er
With Chaise and pair, and Chaise and four.
While Curricles, and Gigs display
The rapid fury of their way;
And many a downfall grac'd the day.
As Playgame claim'd a flying Bet,
His new-built Tilbury was o'erset:
Lord Gammon's Barouche met its fate,
In contact with a Turnpike-Gate;
And Ned Fly's Gig, that hurried after,
Was plung'd into a pond of water:
While Tom, to prove the proverb sound,
Though he was wetted, was not drown'd.
—But, would it not be vain to tell
The various chances that befell
Horsemen and Footmen, who that day,
From Death's dread Challenge ran away?
For when the affrighted Crowd was gone,
And Death and Harry were alone,

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The Spectre hasten'd to propose
That they should forthwith come to blows;
But Harry thought it right to say,
As no one's here to see fair play
I'll try your strength another day:
Besides, I know not how you're made:
I look for substance—you're a shade—
A bag of bones:—for aught I know,
Old Broughton, from the Shades below:
And though alive, I should not dread
His power—I war not with the dead.
Thus, keeping well his guard, he spoke.
When grinning Death put in a stroke,
Which did the short-liv'd round decide,
And Sheffield Harry, in his pride,
Was laid by Tom from London's side.

'Tis thus the Muse begs leave to close
The History of Knock-down blows.