Six legal wigs, like well-plumed tappit hens, Sat brooding o'er a pair of fighting cocks; While lesser wigs, begowned, and brief in hand, Declaimed in flowing periods, of the fray, Like ancient bards, that wanted but their harps, Their wallets, ballad verse, and song, to make The very goose quills, sleeping on the bench, Awake! take sides and spill each other's ink. And as they spake, a legal fog dropt down Upon the learned six, and each beheld, In green mirage, born of the cloud of words, Two cocks, Game cocks, crop-combed, erect, and slim, With feathers dipped in crimson, gold, and blue, Frill-necked, with trailing wings and spurs of steel, That on each other flew and pecked and spurred, And spurred and pecked again, until the Court Reeked like a cock-pit, and the crowd of wigs,-- Of boyish idle wigs,--took bonnet shapes That hooded scowling brows of cursing men, Who laid their bets on this bird, and on that, As, with quick panting breath and beaks agape, They pranced, flew, fought, until the oaken bar Seemed spattered o'er with feathers and cock blood. At length one cock the other overthrew, And struck quick spurs into his quivering breast Until he died; then he, with croaking crow, Fell, wounded, bleeding, dying by his side Amid the applauding cheers of thirsty throats, Soon to be slaked with liquid bets, and so The battle ended, but the fog remained. A rustling of silk plumes upon the bench, Five wigs bent low, and thus great Solon spake-- "'Twas in Kilbarchan that this fight was fought, And straight the men who prompted it were ta'en, And jailed, and tried, and sentenced for the same; But now they seek release, and this their plea, That in the gracious Act which says that men Shall not treat brutes and beasts with cruelty, The name of "_Cock_" is absent; therefore they Claim full exemption for their brutish deeds, And we, vicegerents of our gentle Queen, With spectacle on nose, must well explore This vital point in _Cockieleerie-law_.