Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn :: :: University of Virginia Library

Neat came up once more, but the fight was over; again he
Hit with the dexter arm, and felt that he now was defeated.
Spring in a moment put in a ramstam belly-go fister—
Down to the ground went Neat, and with him down went the battle.
“It is no use,” said Bill; “my arm, do you see me, is injured—
Therefore I must give in.” He spoke—and, mournfully placing
On the sore part his hand, he shewed the fracture to Tom Spring.
Seven-and-thirty minutes it lasted—ten of them wasted
In the first round alone. The glorious news came to London
Somewhere about eight o'clock; but still incredulous people
Held the report as false; and, even approaching to midnight,
Bets were laid on Neat—so much was Spring undervalued.

Woe was in Bristol town—woe, woe on the Severn and Avon;
Cliston, the seat of the gay, looked dull and awfully gloomy;
Grief was in Bath the polite; a mournful air of dejection
Reigned o'er the tables of whist; and mugs, as fair as the morning,

285

Looked like the ten of spades, or the face of my Lord Grim-Grizzle.
Round the old Redcliff church was held an aggregate meeting,
Stormy and sad by fits—where some, with sceptical speeches,
Doubted the fact of the case—or, cunningly crooking the fingers,
Made a X in the open air, affronting the moon-beams;
Others but shook the head, and jingled the coin in their pockets,
Cheering themselves with the much-loved sound of the gold for the last time.
But in the shambles of Bristol, among the butcherly people,
There was the blackness of sorrow; loud oaths, or sorrowful moaning,
Rung in the seat of slaughter—but slaughter now was suspended;
Mute was the marrow-bone now, the ancient music of Britain;
Cleaver, and bloody axe, steel, hand-saw, chopping-block, hatchet,
Lay in a grim repose; and the hungry people of Bristol
Could not the following day get a single joint for their dinner.
But when the cross was suggested, the whole black body of butchers
Raged, like a troubled sea, with a wild and mutinous uproar.

Such was the state of the West. Meanwhile Spring travelled to London,
There to be hailed as the Champion bold of merry Old England.
Neat he saw in bed—his arm was fastened with splinters—
And in the heel of his fist Tom nobly inserted some shiners.
Bill was sulky, however; and still he lustily vaunted,
That, if his arm had not broke, he must have been hailed as the Champion—
That can be known, however, to the Fates and Jupiter only.

Where are the chaffers now, who swore that Spring was no hitter?
That he could scarce make a dint in a pound or a half-pound of butter?—
Melted all fast away, like the butter of which they were speaking.
Long live the Champion Spring! and may his glorious annals
Shine in the pages of Egan as bright as the record of Tom Cribb!
One man more must be fought, however;—Arise to the combat,

286

Rise for the Champion's crown, arise, I say, Joshua Hudson!
That will be the fight—meanwhile Spring lords the ascendant;
Therefore huzza for Spring—and I make my bow to the public.

[“To-morrow for fresh fights and pastures new.”]

—Milton.

M. OD.