Two hours and more the fight had sped, Near unto ten it drew, But still opposed-one-armed to blind,―― They stood, the dauntless two. Ah, me, that I have lived to hear Such men as ruffians scorned, Such deeds of valour brutal called, Canted, preached down and mourned! Ah, that these old eyes ne’er again A gallant Mill shall see! No more behold the ropes and stakes, With colours flying free! But I forget the combat―― How shall I tell the close, That left the Champion’s Belt in doubt Between those well-matched foes? Fain would I shroud the tale in night,―― The meddling blues that thrust in sight,―― The ring-keepers o’erthrown;―― The broken ring,――the cumbered fight,―― HEENANUS’ sudden, blinded flight,―― SAYERIUS pausing, as he might, Just when ten minutes used aright Had made the fight his own! Alas! e’en in those brighter days We still had Beaks and Blues,―― Still, canting rogues, their mud to fling On self-defence and on the Ring, And fistic arts abuse! And ’twas such varmint had the power The Champion’s fight to stay, And leave unsettled to this hour The honours of the day! But had those honours rested Divided as was due, SAYERIUS and HEENANUS Had cut the Belt in two. _Punch._ April 28, 1860. ―――― THE BATTLE OF THE BRIDGE. Great LAWRENCE, erst a builder, By Gog and Magog swore That he would rule the Livery And be Lord Mayor once more. By Gog and Magog swore it, And named the polling day, And bade the Liverymen go forth To all the wards, East, West, and North, To summon his array. I see the long type galleys, I see the molten lead, I see the wondrous matrix―― The bright type leaves its bed. He casts the grim black-letter, For battle he is ripe, Thus ever rides our Besley, Lord of the Founts of Type. Now hath each polling district Sent up her tale of men, And Besley counts by hundreds, And Lawrence scarcely ten. But a mighty boast he uttered “Right soon the Queen shall ride To Blackfriars Bridge, and where looks down The viaduct o’er London town, And Lawrence by her side.” The harvest of the title, This year shall Lawrence reap; This year the London urchins At Queen Victoria peep. This year the crowds shall gather To London, like the foam That gathers on the Tiber That rolls beside old Rome. And now the warfare’s over, And who shall say who’s won, Our Besley rules the Aldermen, The civic fight is done. But Lawrence, cool and cunning, No shock of war would stand, He yields the power, but wins the prize; Henceforth, before the nation’s eyes, He wears the Bloody Hand!