The star of joy has set in night, And drink has done for Snob; And neighbour Coffin, opposite, Is gaping for a job.
Unhappy man! the game is up; Thy moments number'd here; Thy Spouse hath brought the stirrup cup; Departure's hour is near.
The Drunkard's progress may be slow-- 'Tis always insecure; And, by experience sad, we know The termination sure.
And, oh! it is a pleasant thing To mark the dawn of merit, And the progressive march to sing Of true pugnacious spirit.
The future Champion first observe, A thriving lusty sprout, Boldly and with unshrinking nerve, Attack his nurse's snout.
Truly 'tis early days to bruise; Yet manfully he strives And with effect he seems to use His little bunch of fives.
Go it, you hardest, hopeful kid! Bestow another teaser; Those active mawleys why forbid To tap your nurse's sneezer?
Go on and prosper in your race-- When childhood's hours are gone, Your after years will ne'er disgrace The promise of their dawn.
May milling honours soon be thine-- Soon may you learn to fib; And may your fame in history shine, With that of Spring and Cribb.
Alas! since Cain and Abel's day, I tell it with a sigh, Brothers will cross each other's way, Turn to, and have a shy.
Where'er we cast our eyes around, Throughout this vale of tears, Bones of contention will be found To set them by the ears.
The bone, as here, may be a taw; With some, estates or wives; Some settle their disputes by law, And others with their fives.
'Tis said, a truly pleasing sight Are brethren that agree; But angry brethren matched to fight Are not so well to see.
How fearlessly our milling sprout Again has got to work, And sarving his big brother out, Has fairly drawn his cork.
Soon in a higher sphere he'll move, His pluck requires no spur; And none can doubt that he will prove An ugly customer.
The force of reason's out of date, I sing the force of fist, Which carries with it such a weight, That nothing can resist.
Then idle is the hackneyed chaff About the march of mind; The boxer in his sleeve may laugh-- He leaves that march behind.
To bruising fame aspiring still, Why should his ardour cool? Our hero has contrived to mill The Champion of the School.
And there in triumph he appears, With victory elate; While his opponent, drown'd in tears, Bemoans his hapless fate.