Close round my chair, my children, And gather at my knee, The while your mother poureth The Old Tom in my tea; The while your father quaffeth His rot-gut Bordeaux wine,―― ’Twas not on such potations Were reared these thews o’ mine. Such drinks came in the very year ――Methinks I mind it well―― That the great fight of HEENANUS With SAYERIUS befell. These knuckles then were iron; This biceps like a cord; This fist shot from the shoulder A bullock would have floored. Crawleius his Novice, They used to call me then, In the Domus Savilliana, Among the sporting men. There, on benefit occasions, The gloves I oft put on, Walking round to show my muscles When the set-to was done; While ringing in the arena The showered denarii fell, That told Crawleius, Novice Had used his mauleys well. ’Tis but some sixty years since The times whereof I speak, And yet the words I’m using Will sound to you like Greek. What know ye, race of milksops, Untaught of the P. R., What stopping, lunging, countering, Fibbing, or rallying are? What boots to use the _lingo_, When you have not the _thing_? How paint to _you_ the glories Of BELCHER, CRIBB, or SPRING,―― To _you_, whose sire turns up his eyes At mention of the Ring? Yet, in despite of all the jaw And gammon of the time, That brands the art of self-defence ――Old England’s art――as crime, From off mine ancient memories The rust of time I’ll shake, Your youthful bloods to quicken And your British pluck to wake. Then gather to your grandsire’s knee, The while his tale is told, How SAYERIUS and HEENANUS Milled in the days of old. * * * * * The stakes are pitched, the ropes are tied, The men have ta’en their stand; HEENANUS wins the toss for place, And takes the eastward hand. CUSICCIUS and MACDONALDUS Upon the Boy attend; SAYERIUS owns BRUNTONUS, And JIM WELSHIUS for friend. And each upon the other now, A curious eye may throw, As from the seconds’ final rub In buff at length they show, And from their corners to the scratch Move stalwartly and slow.