 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
THE COCK-PIT.
“The great, the important hour is come.”
Oh, Hope! thou wily nurse!
I see bad luck behind thy back,
Dark, brooding, deep remorse.
Oh, Hope! thou wily nurse!
I see bad luck behind thy back,
Dark, brooding, deep remorse.
No fancied muse will I invoke
To grace my humble strain,
But sing my song in homely phrase,
Inspir'd by what I 've seen.
To grace my humble strain,
But sing my song in homely phrase,
Inspir'd by what I 've seen.
Here comes a “feeder” with his charge;
'Mong friends 'tis whisper'd straight,
How long he swung him on a string,
To bring him to his weight.
'Mong friends 'tis whisper'd straight,
How long he swung him on a string,
To bring him to his weight.
The carpet's laid—pit money drawn—
All's high with expectation;
With birds bereft of Nature's garb,
The “handlers” take their station.
All's high with expectation;
With birds bereft of Nature's garb,
The “handlers” take their station.
What roaring, betting, bawling, swearing,
Loudly assail the ear!
“Three pounds!”—“four pounds, on Phillip's cock!”
“Done! done! come on, sir! here!”
Loudly assail the ear!
“Three pounds!”—“four pounds, on Phillip's cock!”
“Done! done! come on, sir! here!”
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Now cast a serious eye around—
Behold the motley group,
All gamblers, swindlers, ragamuffins,
Votaries of the stoup.
Behold the motley group,
All gamblers, swindlers, ragamuffins,
Votaries of the stoup.
(But why of it thus lightly speak?
The poor man's one best frien'—
When fortune's sky lours dark and grim,
It clears the drumly scene.)
The poor man's one best frien'—
When fortune's sky lours dark and grim,
It clears the drumly scene.)
Here sits a wretch with meagre face,
And sullen, drowsy eye;
Nor speaks he much—last night, at cards,
A gamester drained him dry.
And sullen, drowsy eye;
Nor speaks he much—last night, at cards,
A gamester drained him dry.
Here bawls another vent'rous soul,
Who risks his every farthing;
What deil 's the matter!—though at home
His wife and brats are starving.
Who risks his every farthing;
What deil 's the matter!—though at home
His wife and brats are starving.
See, here 's a father 'gainst a son,
A brother 'gainst a brother,
Who e'en with more than common spite
Bark hard at one another.
A brother 'gainst a brother,
Who e'en with more than common spite
Bark hard at one another.
But see yon fellow all in black,
His looks speak inward joy;
Mad happy since his father's death,
Sporting his legacy.
His looks speak inward joy;
Mad happy since his father's death,
Sporting his legacy.
And mark that aged debauchee,
With red bepimpl'd face—
He fain would bet a crown or two,
But purse is not in case.
With red bepimpl'd face—
He fain would bet a crown or two,
But purse is not in case.
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But hark!—what cry!—“He 's run! he 's run!”—
And loud huzzas take place—
Now mark what deep dejection sits
On every loser's face.
And loud huzzas take place—
Now mark what deep dejection sits
On every loser's face.
Observe the owner—frantic man,
With imprecations dread,
He grasps his vanquish'd idol-god,
And quick twirls off his head.
With imprecations dread,
He grasps his vanquish'd idol-god,
And quick twirls off his head.
But, bliss attend their feeling souls
Who no such deeds delight in!
Brutes are but brutes—let men be men,
Nor pleasure in cock-fighting.
Who no such deeds delight in!
Brutes are but brutes—let men be men,
Nor pleasure in cock-fighting.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |