On rushed each lozel to the fight, Ruthless as flood from mountain height, The bludgeons clattered fierce and fast, And dealt destruction as they past, While high as some tall vessel’s mast, Warren o’erlooked the shock; Thence bore him back with might and main; Brickbats and bludgeons fell like rain, Stones, sticks and stumps, all, all in vain, He stemmed them like a rock; His foeman chief with wary eye, The flickering of the fight could spy, And shouted as his bands he led, To Pat O’Thwackum at their head, “Thwackum, press on――ne’er mind your scars, Press on――they yield――and oh, my stars! Each nose is bleeding fast; Strike, strike,――their skulls like walnuts cracking For Day, for Martin, and his blacking, The battle cannot last.” Vain charge! the Warren dauntless stood, Though ankle deep flowed seas of blood, Till Thwackum fierce towards him flies, His breast with choler glows, Rage flashes from his mouth and eyes, And claret from his nose. The foemen meet――they thump, they thwack! Hark! burst the braces on their back! And, hark! their skulls in concert crack! And, hark! their cudgels clatter, whack! With repercussive shocks: See, see they fall――down, down they go, Warren above, his foe below, While high o’er all ascends the cry Of “Warren,” “Warren,” to the sky, And “Thwackum” to the stocks. Oh! for a blast of that tin horn, Through London streets by newsmen borne, That tells the wondering host How murder, rape, or treason dread, Deftly concocted, may be read In Courier, Times, or Post; Then in dramatic verse and prose, The martial muse should tell How Warren triumphed o’er his foes, How Thwackum fought and fell, And how, despite his cartel, Day Hied him, like recreant, from the fray. ’Tis done――the victors all are gone, And fitfully the sun shines down On many a bruised and burly clown, The flower of whose sweet youth is mown, To blossom ne’er again; For e’en as grass cut down is hay, So flesh when drubbed to death, is clay, As proved each hind who slept that day On Brentford’s crimson plain. Sad was the sight, for Warren’s squad Bravely lay sprawling on the sod; They scorned to turn their tails,――for why? They had no tails to turn awry, So dropped each where he stood.