Sir Richard’s bold moss-troopers Looked out uncommon keen, From park and plain and prairie, From heath and upland green; From Essex fens and fallows, From Hampshire, dale and down, From Sussex’ hundred leagues of sand, To Shropshire’s fat and flowery land, And Cheshire’s wild and wasted strand, And Yorkshire’s heather brown;―― And so, of course, the fight came oft A dozen miles from Town. Then first stept out big Heenan, Unmatched for breadth and length; And in his chest it might be guessed; He had unpleasant strength. And to him went the Sayers That looked both small and thin, But well each practised eye could read The ‘lion and the bull-dog’ breed, And from each fearless stander-by Rang out that genuine British cry, ‘_Go in, my boy_,――and win!’ And he went in――and smote him Through mouthpiece and through cheek; And Heenan smote him back again Into the ensuing week: Full seven days thence he smote him, With one prodigious crack, And th’ undaunted Champion straight Discerned that he was five feet eight, When flat upon his back:―― Whilst a great shout of laughter Rose from the Yankee pack. As from the flash the bullet, Out sprang the Sayers then, And dealt the huge Benician A vast thump on the chin; And thrice and four times sternly Drove in the shatt’ring blow; And thrice and four times wavered The herculean foe; And his great arms swung wildly, Like ship-masts two and fro. And now no sound of laughter Was heard from either side, Whilst feint, and draw, and rally, The cautious Bruisers tried; And long they sparred and counter’d Till Heenan sped a thrust So fierce and quick, it swept away Th’ opposing guard like sapling spray――, And for the second time that day The Champion bit the dust. Short time lay English Sayers Upon the earth at length, Short time his Yankee foeman Might triumph in his strength! Sheer from the ground he smote him And his soul went with the blow―― Such blow no other hand could dash―― Such blow no other arm could smash―― The giant tottered low; And for a space they sponged his face, And thought the eye would go. Time’s up!――Again they battle; Again the strokes fly free; But Sayers’ right arm――that arm of pride―― Now dangles pow’rless by his side, Plain for all eyes to see; And thro’ that long and desperate shock―― Two mortal hours on the clock―― By sheer indomitable pluck With his _left hand_ fought he! With his left hand he fought him, Though he was sore in pain,―― Full twenty times hurled backward, Still pressing on again! With his left hand he fought him, Till each could fight no more; Till Sayers could scarcely strike a blow, Till Heenan could not see his foe―― Such fighting England never knew Upon her soil before!